London 1922
by King in Yellow
Summary: Tiberius Sempronius Malfoy, a lieutenant in the trenches during the Great War, heads to London to get one of his former lads out of a scrape and makes the mistake of inviting a daughter of the local gentry along for the ride. The scrape will prove more serious than Malfoy expected - a charge of murder. And avoiding magic in front of the young lady may prove impossible.
1. Oranges and Lemons

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

"World Rowling created" requires a further note, which is explained in greater detail in my other stories. Rowling had Dumbledore declare that Tom Riddle's claims of long-standing hostility between muggles and the wizarding community, and the insistence on 'pure blood' were lies. Dumbledore was supposedly a hero. Riddle/Voldemort was clearly evil. But Rowling, with consistent inconsistency, presented what she had Dumbledore call lies as if they were true. I suspect it is part of that fine old tradition of British humor... Excuse me, humour, like cruelty towards orphans that the rest of the world finds utterly inexplicable. Reading about an abused orphan apparently causes the English to roll on the floor with uncontrollable fits of giggles.

I treat Dumbledore's claim, that Riddle told his followers lies, as true. And as already mentioned, further explanation of the economic relationship I picture between the wizarding and muggle communities, and their growing apart as a result of the 19th century Industrial Revolution are explained elsewhere.

Chapter titles from the short version of the nursery rhyme / game The Bells of London. There are multiple versions.

 **Oranges and Lemons Say the Bells of Saint Clement's**

Like hundreds of thousands of other veterans of the Great War I'd found myself at loose ends since the Armistice. I was more fortunate than most in finding haven in the loving arms of my family. Exactly how long I could remain safely ensconced in the familial bosom wasn't clear. Younger sons will eventually wear out their welcome. But, for the nonce, the family manor served as my billet. I arose early, tenish, and headed downstairs for my morning repast. There was a chance I might find other members of the family at table when I had my egg and kippers. Heard some chap argue that if one begins one's day by eating a toad, nothing worse can happen to you that day. I am not certain why the thought popped into my head, but perhaps it would be wise not to share said thought with family.

"Tiberius," mother exclaimed when I entered. "How lovely to have you join us for breakfast."

My dear brother said nothing, the mental focus required to spread marmalade on toast currently occupying his mind. It was probably just as well.

Edward, meanwhile had put two lumps of sugar in a cup and poured coffee for me. Young Edward is still years away from the level of performance his father managed, but he is still excellent. The Slopers know how to serve. "The usual, Sir?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Oh, there was a phone call for you this morning."

"Right-o, and subject matter of said jangle?"

"A Mister Badger, Sir, reporting that a Mister Mucky might require your assistance."

"Mister Badger?" Marcus grunted. "Mister Mucky?"

The elder son and heir did his service in the War Office, never closer to the front than the commute from Belgrave to Whitehall and Horse Guards Avenue... I shouldn't be narrow minded. It is possible, albeit highly unlikely, that some unfortunate business connected with the war MIGHT have forced him to visit the East End. "There is a certain informality in the trenches," I informed him. "At least among the rank and file. And it would simply be Badger and Mucky. Rather like the fact I was simply TS at Hogwarts."

"They didn't have a dreadful name for you, did they?" Mother asked in horror. "In the trenches, I mean."

"No, it was always, Sir," I assured her. "My lads knew I was their CO." 'My lads' averaged a good ten years older than myself. But when they're under your command they become your lads. Not that it made any sense. I was drafted out of Hogwarts in seventh year on the premise that the son of a Lord was fit, by birth, to be an officer. There was little sense on either side in guiding the war.

"Mucky?"

"Short for mucilage. Things sort of 'stuck' to his hands."

"Some sort of curse?" Marcus suggested.

"Not literally stuck to his hands. He just picked things up. Couldn't seem to help it. In and out of gaol for petty theft before the war. Someone had to check him each night. He always claimed he didn't know how things got into his pockets."

"Then he's probably back in gaol," Marcus snorted. "Don't waste your time on the muggle."

"Badger wouldn't call unless it was something serious. I fear some of my lads thought I could work miracles."

"You didn't use magic, did you?" mother asked in her frequent voice of horror.

"I did whatever I could to stay alive, and keep my lads alive."

Edward, who had been standing patiently to the side during the conversation, placed a plate down in front of me. "Should I inform Nigel you will be going to the city?"

"Yes, have him pack my kit and... Oh, would you jangle March Hall and see if June needs to escape the asylum and flee with me to the city? Nigel can take a train."

"I will inform Nigel of your plans and telephone the Marches."

I devoted my attention to the egg. If there is anything to be gained from life on the front it is an appreciation for simple pleasures. Before the war I would have been unable to see the beauty of a soft-boiled egg. The very adjective, beauty, applied to the fruit of the hen would have struck me as utterly absurd. There were days in the trenches I would have killed for a soft-boiled egg. Which is not at all mad. I was being asked to kill for no reward at all. Edward had not opened it for me. He knew I enjoyed the simple task of opening it for myself. Edward had not seen the front. He served in the rear, but had been stationed in France. He'd met enough of the men in the trenches that he had a sensibility toward my feelings my parents and brother could never share. And with the sense of gratitude for a simple pleasure of a properly soft-boiled egg was a sense of gratitude that my parents would never have to understand the reality of the trenches.

On Edward's return he informed me, "Miss March sends an assurance that a drive to the city would be most welcome. She did, however, place certain unusual stipulations on the ride."

"Well, lay on MacDuff," I ordered.

"You are to drive the Bentley, stop at the north end of the hall, and under no circumstances are you to turn off the engine or leave the vehicle. She will come out to join you."

"Curious, but not unlike June."

Mother complained, "I wish you'd stop seeing that muggle girl."

"I'm hardly seeing her, Mumsy, I'm simply providing transportation to the city. She's a sister to me, and it's your fault." I'm not entirely clear if it was mother's fault or not, but it was convenient to blame her. When the Marches or the Malfoys had some lengthy or distant family event for which the younger children – at least those out-of-line for inheritance – were unwelcome June might be deposited here for days, or I placed under their care.

"And you're leaving your valet to take the train," Marcus added, an obvious observation he uttered for no apparent reason other than a belief he should waste time in the conversation.

"Given the choice of a pretty, and intelligent, young woman as a companion on a long drive, or a dull valet, I will choose the obvious." Nigel is a reasonably good valet. By a singular stroke of good fortune I'd acquired Nige as batman during the war. Having a squib for an attendant made my life much easier. When he joined the ranks of the unemployed after demob I was happy to hire him as valet. Nigel is not one of those genius valets who abound in fiction – with brains infinitely superior to those of their... Given my view of the typical representative of the gentry or peerage it would require very little in the way of gray matter for a valet to surpass his employer in intellect. I was vastly amused at a production of Iolanthe when the peers quailed at the threat of Strephon introducing a bill to open the peerage to competitive examination. I suspect my brother might not post marks sufficient to pass muster. I think father would keep his post, and I hope my belief is based on a realistic assessment of the old boy's ability and not simply filial loyalty.

Edward coughed gently to indicate he was not through with his communication. "And she said you should arrive at ten minutes past eleven."

I glanced at the clock on the sideboard. "Cutting it rather close, what?"

"I neglected to inform her you were still in your pajamas. She may have assumed you were prepared to leave."

"Must run," I warned Mum and Marcus, scalded my mouth quickly finishing the coffee, and pushed away from the table. "No idea how long I'll be gone. Give father my love."

Great-grandmother Vivien would tell stories of riding to March Hall. I feel as certain she could not have believed the fact I reached March Hall twenty-eight minutes after leaving the breakfast as I am certain mother would not approve of the speed necessary to accomplish the feat.

My marching orders had not included, 'Don't honk the horn', so I squeezed the bulb and it emitted the clarion call of an offended goose to alert June of my arrival.

The audio announcement of my arrival had two results. One, as might be expected, was June coming around the corner carrying a small bag.

"Idiot, I didn't say sound your horn."

"You didn't tell me not to."

I noticed the unexpected result of blowing my horn in the mirror as June's father emerged from the front door armed with a shotgun. June broke into a run, detouring to place herself between the paternal weapon and the Bentley. "Drive!" she commanded as she threw her bag behind the seat and dove headfirst into the passenger seat.

One of the many things I appreciate about being out of the army is the fact I no longer need to follow commands. Still, compelling circumstances made it seem expeditious to put the Benley in gear and hit the accelerator. In the mirror I watched June's paternal unit waving the shotgun and suspected words were coming out of his mouth which were obscured by the sound of the motor and the tires on gravel.

"Your father appeared to be carrying a shotgun," I commented dryly, while doing my best to stay on the road despite having various feminine arms and legs tangled with my own arms (and a rude encounter between her foot and my ribs). Gazing at silk encased legs represented a temptation which could only be avoided by a need to stay on the road. It is sometimes difficult to remember that my feelings to her are supposed to be limited to that of an indulgent brother toward a younger sister.

My passenger finally managed to assume a position of top-side up and and brought her dress into something approaching a state of decency. "Well, Tibsy, there is a reason for that," she assured me.

"And that reason was?"

"He was carrying a shotgun. Is there a better reason it would appear he was carrying one?"

"No, I suppose not. But one does wish to know the reason a country squire desires to perforate one's dermal layer."

"He thinks we're having sex."

"On the road to London?"

"Sex on the road sounds terribly uncomfortable, doesn't it?"

"And too much chance of being hit by a passing vehicle."

"Oh, not so. I'm quite certain they would run into the ditch or stop and stare rather than hitting us."

"True," I conceded. "Is there a reason for this, what I hope is a, passing fit of madness on the part of your father?"

"Well... I had a terribly good time at a party recently and mentioned to Cynthia, who I swore to absolute secrecy, that–"

"While I don't know Cynthia well I see an obvious flaw in your plan."

"Well, yes. In retrospect it is easy to see the problem. At the time however–"

"At the time you had far too much fun boasting to Cynthia."

"It is very rude to finish my sentences for me. No names were mentioned, and Papa has decided you are the likely partner."

"I thought a horse whip was the standard instrument of outrage towards a cad."

"We Marches don't follow fashion trends, we set them."

"Did you tell your father I am not your co-respondent?"

"Don't be silly. Neither of us are married, it would be fornication – not adultery."

"The point is, we have not had sex."

"Are you quite certain? I have caught you tampering with my memory."

Her scream alerted me to the fact my mind had left the subject of steering entirely, and I quickly resumed control of the vehicle – to the assumed relief to the horses and the driver of the hay wagon I had been heading toward. "What?" I managed to gasp.

"Is it some sort of hypnosis? Every now and then after visiting with you I find holes in my memory... The first time was... I was at your home and I found an ugly dwarf servant of some sort. It came back to me a few days later, very hazy but a real memory. I think the next time was when you showed me a portrait of your Great-grandmother when she was young, and I thought I saw one of the pictures move. The memory came back more quickly that time. And there've been a couple times since. But I don't think you've taken advantage of me, have you? Unless you're a dreadful lover and I'm better off not remembering the details."

I had been in a state of blind panic. She had seen a house elf, and I, a second year at Hogwarts, had thought myself very clever in applying a memory charm. I had apparently applied it so badly that it served to interfere with subsequent attempts to use it. "Ah, yes. Hypnosis," I agreed. "Please don't mention it anyone in the family."

"Ah, the power to blackmail you if I so desire."

"You wouldn't."

"No, I wouldn't," she admitted. "But please stop doing it. And you are quite certain we've not had sex?"

"I would remember if we had sex," I assured her. "And I would rather parental units not hear about my mail order course in hypnosis." It would embarrass me that I'd performed the charm so badly. And some family member might take it upon himself, or herself, to adjust June's memory. And the results of a memory charms can be permanently harmful. "Why did your father decide I was the cad... I'm assuming cad–"

"You are terribly old-fashioned, Tibsy. A woman can only have sex before marriage as the result of seduction or rape? This is the twentieth century. Let a woman decide for herself."

"But why did your father decide I was your consenting partner?"

June shrugged, "You are the obvious candidate. I was infatuated with you when I was ten... Perhaps as early as eight."

"And the crush was very gratifying. Especially when you sent letters to me at the front. I didn't tell my platoon you were fifteen."

"I'm certain I was over my infatuation at that point, although you did look very handsome in your uniform. I had discovered you were something of a fat head. But one does one's duty on the home front, and keeping up the morale of our gallant troops was all a schoolgirl could manage. Besides, letters from the front marked me as sophisticated and mature. I did not confess to anyone that you were an idiot."

"And so I became the prime suspect for taking your virginity?"

"You are showing your Victorian morality again, my dear Tibsy. Why do you assume I was telling Cynthia of my first time? If a man is not looked down upon for multiple partners, why should a woman be? It is nineteen-twenty-two and I believe in equality of the sexes."

"The French have a phrase, vive la différence."

"I didn't say we are the same, simply that we are equal... Though I happen to think I look fetching in white ducks."

"You would look fetching in a gunny-sack," I assured her. "But I don't think I'd look appealing in a chemise."

"Thank you for the compliment. But you are quite right about being unable to carry off a chemise. You haven't the legs for it."

"And how many partners have you had?"

"Don't be tiresome. A gentleman doesn't talk about his lovers."

"You're not a gentleman."

"Well then, a gentleman doesn't ask a woman about her experience."

"And I'm a gentleman?"

"And an officer. Would you mind, as a friend, going to father and confessing you are my paramour? It might make my life easier."

"It might end mine."

"Don't be silly. The shotgun was simply to gain your attention."

"It achieved its goal. Assuming he doesn't riddle me with shot, then what? I am forbidden to ever see you again? Perhaps I should confess."

"I thought I jumped into your car very well. We could make it something of a habit."

"Or, what if he should get it into his head that I should do the right thing by you?"

"Wouldn't that be the forbidding us to see each other again?"

"No, marriage."

"Don't be silly. We are totally unsuited for each other. You are one of the mysterious Malfoys. It doesn't matter if the local women are available, abundant, and attractive. Younger sons, and any daughters, of clan Malfoy are all married away – seldom to be seen again. And Lord Malfoy's wife will always be some stranger brought in from... Was your great-grandmother Vivien really a seamstress in London?"

"Yes, one of the darkest secrets of the house of Malfoy. Never to be revealed."

"Well, I loved to hear her tell about life in the day. And, of course, our pecuniary states would forbid our union."

"I considered poisoning Marcus for the inheritance, but I checked the etiquette books."

"And?"

"It is considered impolite to bump off anyone closer than a first cousin. My financial situation will likely not improve. Will your parents raffle you off to some wealthy American?" I would not joke with June about eliminating older siblings. Her oldest brother died at Loos, and both other brothers suffered serious wounds at Third Ypres. There was a chance my straits were not as narrow or dire as they appeared, but that may have been optimism on my part rather than realistic.

"I hope not, although given the choice of marriage to an American or some gouty, fat old banker who is a widower with grown children older than I, might cause me to reconsider the American. Lonely spinsterhood appears more attractive all the time."

"Are none of your lovers suitable candidates for marriage?"

"Do I detect a note of jealousy in the question? I told you, a gentleman doesn't ask."

"May I ask if you are going to the city to see one of your admiring throng?"

"It is not that many. It is not polite to ask. And the answer is no. It is a very pleasant day for a drive. Even with you. I shall probably find some theater to... If you ask nicely I might allow you take me to the theater, and pay for dinner."

"As attractive as your invitation sounds–"

"I was not inviting you to anything! I was saying that, should you invite me to dinner, I would be available."

"You should consider becoming a Portia. I am not certain what my business is, nor how long it will take."

"Terribly mysterious, even for a Malfoy. I had hoped my ticket was good for a round trip. You don't know why you are going to the city? I would like to believe it for the pleasure of my company. But I suspect it may simply be for change of air. Is Marcus really so insufferable? Are you sure you can't furnish me an arm to lean on at the theater and shoes to step on should I need to leave my seat?"

I hesitated, "Since I don't know the exact reason for the trip I can't be certain how long it will require. And the pleasure of your company and the absence of my brother's did make the drive even more appealing. Perhaps I can finish business early. I'll leave you to Mayfair then find Badger and ask–"

"You will not leave me in Mayfair."

"Is there shopping you–"

"You will take me with you. Your Badger is such a droll man, full of the most dreadful stories about you."

"I don't know if there will be time for any of his dreadful tales. He called to say Mucky was in some sort of scrape."

"Oh, I found out there is a word for your Mucky."

"It is pronounced thief."

"No, it is kleptomania, it is a disease. He shouldn't be in prison, he should be treated by a doctor."

"I really shall start calling you Portia. And I have no idea what his current scrape may be – although I trust Badger not to ask for help except for something serious."

"I am figuratively rubbing my hands in glee at the hint of an adventure."

"And I am figuratively throwing you from the auto for–" I glanced over.

"Throwing me from the auto?"

"I looked over and your skirt is high enough to uncover a garter. I think I shall keep you."

June pulled down her skirt to insure the greatest modesty possible given the hemline of her chemise. "I don't recall offering to stay – although I shall certainly remain with you long enough to meet your Mucky. I've heard you talk about him so often I am curious to see him for myself."

"There is nothing unusual in his appearance," I warned her.

"I will find out for myself. Perhaps we shall see more of your 'lads'?" I do love hearing what a splendid officer you were."

"The officers above me would paint a very different picture."

"They are not the ones I want to meet. And you've introduced me to so few... Who was the chemist chap? The one who wanted directions for that foot powder... You really had to inspect all their feet? My brothers never talk about that."

"The chemist was Sol. Your brothers are trying to spare you from what happened. I'm trying to discourage you from asking about the front. Trench foot was dreadful. The lads were paired and were to check each other, but my duties included periodic inspections."

"I was told your lads never suffered trench foot, there was some powder you put in the whale oil."

"Nothing unusual," I lied and waved it off. The most important ingredient was powdered dragon scales, not in the inventory of most apothecaries. "We were probably just lucky."

"Perhaps," she reluctantly agreed.

* * *

On arriving in London I found a spot to park and we took shank's mare to the Inverness Street Market. Badger had his back to us, dickering with a woman about the price of oranges. June started to raise a hand to tap him on the shoulder, but I caught her eye and shook my head 'no', then started to softly sing, "That's the wrong way to tickle Marie, That's the wrong way to kiss–"

Badger turned around and added his cracked bass to the next lines, "Don't you know that over here, lad, They like it better like this." He snapped a fast salute, "Let me finish with me customer, Sir. 'alf a mo."

Badge might have gotten tuppence more without the interruption, but he took the coins offered for the fruit and turned back. "Good to see you, Sir. You too, Miss March. Glad you could come."

June was peering around, "Tibsy said you telephoned?"

"Apothecary's shop, Miss."

"You said Mucky was in some kind of jam. And since we both know Mucky is always in some sort of scrape I figured it must be serious. Oh, before you give me the report, June wants to prove the education is not wasted on women. She has discovered a name for Mucky's problem." I looked at June, "This is your moment to shine."

She gave a feminine harrumph and glared at me, "There is only person I know on whom education was wasted, but he shall remain nameless." She looked at Badge, "It is called kleptomania."

"Cleft-toe-what?"

"Kleptomania. It's some sort of disease. You just can't help yourself, you steal things even if you don't need or want them."

Badger shrugged, "Knew 'e was like that even if'n didn't 'ave no name for it. Jus' can't 'elp 'isself."

"So, what has he gotten himself into this time? Nicked the Lord Mayor's watch?"

"'Fraid it's more serious, Sir. Stopped in a stolen car. They went through it, and in the boot was a duffle with five 'eads all cut off and a big load of morphine."

"They don't think–"

"'Fraid so. I mean, five 'eads is serious. Bobbies don't want people thinkin' there's some bloke runnin' round with a big chopper. There was Mucky, in the car with the 'eads and the dope and a record of in and out of gaol. It just seemed easy to lock 'im up and call case closed."

I sighed, this sounded more difficult than anything I'd done before for my lads... At least since we'd gotten back from France. But I knew Mucky, and I knew him to be utterly harmless, other than his questionable habit of slipping other people's property into his own pockets. "No promises. I'll see what he's up against and do what I can."

June linked arms with me, " _We_ shall do all _we_ can to see justice done."

"I don't recall requesting your help."

"Well you have it anyway. Two heads are better than one – especially if one of them is yours."

"This is not a game! A man's life is in danger."

"And that is all the more reason to accept any help which is offered. You should thank me."

"I should take a hair brush to your derriere."

"Later, perhaps. Right now there is a mystery to solve."

* * *

 **Notes**

Built in 1906 at a cost of £1.2 million the War Office building (equivalent to the US Pentagon) at Horse Guards Avenue and Whitehall remained in use until 1964.

The British Army was woefully unprepared for the Great War. All volunteers, the small regular army, the British Expeditionary Force basically ceased to exist by late 1914. More volunteers, termed Kirchner's Army or the second army, absorbed the remnants of the first army (who later called themselves the Old Contemptibles for the low regard the Kaiser was said to have for them). In January 1916 the draft created the third army. During the French Revolution it had been discovered that military ability is not based on social status (there was this guy you might have heard of, Napoleon), but the Brits were slow in learning the lesson and still imagined the gentry and noble classes automatically produced men of officer caliber. To what degree you can blame bad strategy on this bias is unclear. No one in any military was prepared for the new techniques and technologies which made trench war so Hellish in the War to End All Wars.

The typical Bentley 3 Litre was a touring model (open) but customized bodies were common and it could be ordered with a saloon (enclosed) body.

(Alfred) Ernest Jones introduced the cult of Freud to England in 1913. Psychoanalysis was at least as effective as other medical knowledge at the time in treating shell shock (which today would be known as PTSD - post-traumatic stress disorder) and it came into vogue in the 1920s.

Demob - demobilization. Britain quickly dropped more than three million soldiers from the ranks (creating unemployment problem in the process) while slashing military spending because the War to End All Wars was over and no one would be crazy enough to start another.

Hypnosis/Mesmerism... Franz Anton Mesmer developed the techniques we call hypnosis in the early 19th century. In the mid-19th century the term hypnosis, meaning sleep inducing, came into use - although not for mesmerism. In the late 19th century the word hypnosis began to become attached to the techniques of Dr. Mesmer. Usage remained fluid for years with hypnosis finally vanquishing the term mesmerism. The mail order course in hypnosis is an anachronistic joke based on classified ads in later magazines for boys, who dreamed it would give them power over women.

Crush, as American slang for infatuation, pre-dates the first World War.

White ducks - white duck (canvas) trousers. In the 1920s they became a unisex garment. A novelty song from 1926 makes fun of fact it can hide the gender of the person wearing them. A chemise was a sort of undergarment on its early appearance, intended for both men and women. For women it evolved into the outer dress of the flapper, which hung from shoulders to knees with no waist - allowing freedom of movement. For men it evolved into white cotton undershirts. The woman's garment was sometimes vulgarized into shimmy dress, while a style of men's undershirts was vulgarized into 'wife-beaters'.

Battle of Loos, 1915, saw the first attempt by British forces to use poison gas in battle. Poor communication turned what could have been an important victory for the Allies into defeat. Third Ypres - several battles took place around Ypres during the Great War. The third major conflict is also know as the Battle of Passchendaele, 1917.

Portia - term for woman lawyer. In Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice a disguised Portia defends Antonio in court. Since women weren't allowed on stage it would have been a young man, playing the part of a woman, disguised as a man. One wonders if might have inspired Victor/Victoria - where Julie Andrews plays a woman, pretending to be a man, who is a female impersonator. Some women in Britain had earned legal degrees beginning in the late 19th century. It became easier to enter law school after passage of the 1919 Sex Disqualification (Removal) Act, but it didn't necessarily make it easier for women to obtain jobs in the legal profession.

Trench foot was a common problem which could lead to gangrene and amputation.

'That's the Wrong Way to Tickle Marie', to the tune of, 'It's a Long Way to Tipperary' was printed in the 1917 Tommy's Tunes, a collection of some of the cleaner songs sung by soldiers on the front. Needless to say 'Hanging on the Old Barbed Wire', a bitter condemnation of the comforts enjoyed by officers while privates were slaughtered, was not. The War Office thought it lowered morale, and Tommy's Tunes was meant to show how cheerfully the BEF carried on.


	2. You Owe Me Five Farthings

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

 **You owe me five farthings, Say the bells of St. Martin's**

Without any urging on my part June March insisted upon helping me try and clear the name of one of my lads and asserted, "You should thank me."

I probably would require help, but it didn't change the fact she was intruding in my affairs. "I should take a hair brush to your derriere."

"Later, perhaps. Right now there is a mystery to solve."

I turned back to Badger, "I'll see what the papers report. I'll visit the prison, although he's usually too confused to be much help."

Badger nodded, "Probably just saw the auto and took off with no idea what was in the boot."

"Do you know where he lodges? Maybe someone there will know something."

"'E was 'avin' trouble finding work. Kippin' with Ginger Muggs last I knew."

"Probably too late to find Ginger today. Hyde Park some time between two and four still my best chance?"

My former sergeant nodded agreement.

I consulted with June, "You think of anything more we need to ask?"

She looked at Badger, "Since Tibsy and I will be glued to one another for a day or two, what story should I have him tell me about life on the front?"

"'Ave 'im tell you about the bombed peer. And if 'e does, pass it on to me. Best wine I've ever drunk."

June looked at me and raised an eyebrow, "The bombed peer?"

" _Le bon père_ "

" _Le bon père_? That's the wine at Malfoy Manor."

"Our _vin ordinaire_ , and an exceedingly fine _vin ordinaire_ indeed. But I fear future generations may discover that the Malfoy cellar is oddly lacking in the vintages of thirteen and fourteen." I warned Badger, "Miss March might be able to drag details from me which I kept hidden from the troops. Should she ferret out the information I shall trust her discretion, probably a very poor thing to trust, should she share the more public details with you."

We left the market and headed back for the auto. "Don't even think of not telling me about _Le bon père_ ," June warned.

"Should I start with the portion you are not to share with anyone, especially Marcus, or the discovery that it goes very well with grilled rat?"

"The story hasn't even started, and it is already getting better. I shall trust your narrative powers for however you wish to tell it."

"A vineyard in France has been sending wine to the Malfoys for decades. No one knew why. Or rather, those who knew why didn't say. It seems grandfather should not have been the Malfoy heir."

"Why?"

"Great-grandfather had a first wife, and a first son, before marrying Great-grandmother Vivien. Apparently said heir didn't find managing the family estate to his tastes and, trusting in the salubrious benefits of the French countryside, renounced his inheritance to run a vineyard with a friend from school. They–"

"A friend? You once said your school admitted women. A female friend?"

"I'm afraid not."

She sighed, "It would have made the tale ever so romantic."

My guess is it had been romantic, but I left that out. "Great grandfather... And here is why you don't mention it to Marcus. Great grandfather gave, or loaned, or invested the money with the son who renounced his inheritance. And–"

"Why not mention this to Marcus? I don't plan to. Just curious."

"Because Marcus is greedy. I believe it was a gift," (Actually, from conversations with portraits in France and Malfoy Manor I knew it had been a gift. But no one had the foresight to put the fact down in writing.) "and, out of gratitude, Claudius – the ex-heir – named their wine the good father – that drawing on the label is based on great-grandfather. Claudius also shipped several hundred bottles a year to Malfoy Manor in gratitude. The courts might regard that as interest on a loan, or as the fruits of an investment and rule that the vineyard belongs to the Malfoy Estate, which is to say Marcus. The worry for Claudius was that at his death Peter, the friend with whom he developed the winery, might be thrown off by a Malfoy with the title and–"

"They should have put things into writing! And what difference does it make now?"

"Yes, Portia," I agreed, suspecting there were a variety of reasons, both legal and that vague sense of 'family honor' which kept it from being duly signed, witnessed, and registered. "Peter is still alive, and in good health for a centenarian. While I doubt father would lay claim to the vineyard I'm less certain if Marcus could be trusted."

"This Peter is still alive? It sounds like we are getting to the part of the story where the usual tribute to the memory of a good father is redirected to the front lines."

"It is indeed. On a week's leave from the front, and being somewhat thirsty for a good wine, I decided to visit the source of _Le bon père_. Peter was delighted to receive a Malfoy as guest and, what with shipping being disrupted by the war and still English at heart, offered to let me take the wine to my lads if I could find a way to do so." There were several lies there. It had actually been the portrait of great-uncle Claudius who made the suggestion. And one reason I found favor in his sight was the fact I was on good terms with Yorrick. Yorrick is... Well, it's hard to say who or what Yorrick is. 'Talking skull' perhaps comes closest. Do not, under any circumstances, refer to him as an artifact in the Malfoy's dark arts collection. Apparently Yorrick once had an even worse disposition than he currently possesses and Claudius was one of the first to become on good terms with the skull. I've been back to France twice since the Armistice and–"

"Bribe or your memory hypnosis?" June repeated.

"Eh?"

"I asked how you got the wine to the front."

"A lorry."

She rolled her eyes, "That was obvious. But a lorry full of wine would be difficult to move through check points and sentries, who might want to case for themselves before allowing you to pass. So, did you bribe them in some manner or use your hypnotic technique?"

We reached the Bentley and I opened the door for her. "Other than the bollixed attempt on you years ago I have become quite proficient with erasing memories. No one remembered me, or the wine."

"And it went well with rats? That–"

"That is a conversation for another time," I told her as I climbed behind the wheel. "I'm here to help Mucky, remember?"

"Sorry, you are absolutely correct. First you need to... No, not first, second you need to contact a highly placed friend in the Metropolitan Police."

"What highly placed friend in Scotland Yard?"

"You must have one. In all the stories the gentleman detectives have highly placed friends in the Metropolitan Police."

I raised an eyebrow, "What are you talking about? What stories? Gentleman detective? What friend?"

As if talking to a small child she explained, "The gentleman detective in the crime stories always has an old school friend or other sort of close acquaintance at the Yard. It is ever so helpful in gaining insight into the case. Surely you must have made some sort of useful connection at your school in the north or while you were in service to the king."

"Perhaps I went to school for an education."

"Don't be dull. Meeting people who can help you later in life is the purpose of school. Besides, you don't strike me as being much of a scholar."

I had made connections at Hogwarts which could help me, but not with the current situation. My connections were with families in high positions in the Ministry of Magic and would likely be reluctant to step into an investigation of muggle crimes. "And this gentleman detective thing?"

"Man of leisure who is free to find the guilty party in a–"

"I am going to try to help Mucky. I really don't care who–"

"Well what is the best possible way to clear him?"

She had me there, so I changed the subject. "I still don't understand this gentleman detective rot."

"Don't you read The Strand?"

"The Strand?"

She sighed, "You're hopeless. It's where all the good stories of– Please tell me you've at least heard of Sherlock Holmes."

"I feel confident there is no one in Britain who hasn't heard of Sherlock Holmes. He's one of your Strand stories?"

"Easily the most famous, and–"

"So you are taking the part of Watson?"

"Don't be silly. Watson is in the stories as a perfectly average person to show off how intelligent Holmes is. You aren't that brilliant. You need a partner to compensate for your areas of weakness."

"So, not only must I accept your unsought interference but I must also regard you as my partner?"

"You need me... There are stories with women detectives. I could–"

"We shall do our best to solve it together," I agreed. "Two heads are better than one. You said something about going to the Yard as second? What is first?"

"A quick drive to Mayfair. I am showing more leg than might be appropriate at police headquarters."

"Why don't I drop you off, I'll come back after I've gathered details of the case."

"No you won't, I want to be there. Besides, you said you didn't know anyone there. How do you propose to gain access to information?"

"Dogged persistence. I shall not rest until I find someone who can fill in the sketch Badger presented to us in greater detail."

"Persistence is good, but knowing someone is better. Oh, and persistence is a virtue in your pursuit of the fair sex. Sometimes, when she says that she is not interested, she is testing to see if you're interested in serious pursuit or not."

"So, if she says 'no' it means 'yes'?"

"It can. Unless she finds you tiresome. In that case persistence simply annoys her more."

"And how is a man to tell what a woman means?"

"I'm sworn to secrecy. The sisterhood would blackball me if they found I'd revealed the answer. But you may take it, as a rule of thumb, that if she answers the door carrying a shotgun it would be wise to transfer your affections to another object of devotion."

"Sound advice indeed."

I parked near the March city home. "Wait in the sitting room. I'm be back in half a jif."

Being convinced no woman had ever changed her apparel in such a time frame I found a magazine (not The Strand) and thumbed through the issue. I was half-way through an article when June breezed in wearing wide white ducks, with a navy inspired blouse. She twirled to give me a sense of her outfit.

"That wasn't half a jif," I complained. "It was at least five jifs."

"You're tiresome. If you keep that attitude I may borrow father's shotgun. What matters is how I look. How do I look? Police officers are always accommodating to pretty young women."

"You are distinctly fetching, and you know it. You are fishing for compliments."

"It doesn't matter if a girl knows she's pretty or not. She likes to hear it. And if means more if I don't have to ask you."

"I'll remember that. I'll get the auto and–"

"Call a cab. I've no idea what traffic and parking are like at the Yard."

At the Yard June asked to speak with Divisional Detective Inspector Robin Thrush, instructing the sergeant to inform him that one of Mimsy's friends from school wished to speak with him.

"Is there any chance your friend's brother will know anything about Mucky's case," I asked as the sergeant delivered the message.

"Probably not. But he will most certainly know who is in charge of the case and can be persuaded to make a good introduction. A pretty young woman has ways of making a man talk."

Someone... I'm not sure of the chap's rank, assuming he possessed one, if this were the army I would assume a private or orderly of some sort, escorted us to the desk of Divisional Detective Inspector Thrush, who stood and greeted us warmly... At least he greeted June warmly. I wondered if the warmth owed more to June being a friend of his sister or the fact June is a pretty young woman. I was too busy guessing his motives that June had to nudge me to get my attention, "... Tiberius Sempronius Malfoy, younger son of Lord Malfoy, Private Wright served under him. Tibsy, this is Detective Thrush. His sister, Miriam, was a class ahead of me." She looked at the detective. "I've not heard from Mimsy in ages. How is she?"

Thrush sighed, "Running with a wild lot, I fear. Treasure hunting and all that nonsense." He pointed at two chairs, obviously inviting us to sit down. I didn't want to sit down. I wanted ask for whoever was handling the murder investigation which had dragged in Mucky.

June simpered and flirted, and Thrush fawned and complimented. It was making me lose my appetite. I was a neighbor who had offered her a ride to the city and she had promised to introduce me to someone important. Detective Thrush was obviously not important. And he was too damn handsome. The Metropolitan Police should hire no one except plug-uglies.

"As long as you're in the city, could I take you out to dinner tonight? We can talk more about Mimsy."

"That would be lovely," June answered, with far too much delight. "But not tonight." She laid a hand on my arm, "Tibsy promised me dinner and theater for making the introduction."

"Perhaps he could oblige and take you out another day?"

Thrush and June looked at me. He obviously wanted me to release June from an offer I'd not made. No man ever has a clue for what goes on inside a woman's skull. But I had no interest in doing pretty-boy a favor. I patted June's hand. "Dreadfully sorry. A Malfoy pays his debts promptly. Lord knows what she would charge in interest if I delayed repayment."

"You have my card," June reminded him. "Can I write the telephone exchange on it?"

He handed her the card, and a pen, and she recorded the information. When she returned the card he gave her his own, "Let me know if you're in town long."

But Robin Thrush was not totally useless, he did take us to Detective Chief Inspector Rowe. Rowe looked a proper chief inspector, old and beefy with more hair in his white side-whiskers than the top of his head. He bore a military air about him. I've never met an officer I liked... To be more precise, I've not met an officer above me in chain of command that I liked. But there were some I respected.

"Lieutenant Malfoy?"

"Now simply Tiberius Malfoy, Sir. Mustered out."

"Drop the Sir, I was mustered out a quarter century ago. Thrush said that Wright we arrested in the five heads case was one of your lads?"

"Yes."

"And he's innocent," June insisted.

The old boy gave her a look which indicated he believed children and females of any age should not speak until spoken to.

Which did not stop June from plunging ahead. "He suffers from an illness! It's called kleptomania. He should be treated for the illness, not imprisoned!"

Rowe looked at me. "He seems to have some sort of problem," I confirmed. "Can't seem to help himself. Constantly in trouble before the war. Every man in the platoon recognized his problem, but knew him to be harmless. We used to check him each night to see what he'd pocketed during the day. Caused more than one fright when we found live Mills bombs on him, and the pin came out trying to extract it from his pocket. My sergeant saw the news of the arrest in the papers this morning. He called out to the country and I came in as quickly as I could. Wright is quite harmless despite that unfortunate habit."

The Chief Inspector shrugged. "The war changed men. I thought fighting the Boers was hell, but it was nothing compared with what I hear you chaps went through... A third of the arrests we make these days are veterans – most of them suffering from shell shock. A jury will convict."

"But he's innocent!" I paused. "It is still early in the investigation. I'm sure you'll find the guilty party. I'll stay in the city and await–"

"The investigation is over," he told me. I caught, or hoped I caught, a note of bitterness in his voice.

"What? So soon?"

"The request came down from the Home Office. I am to prepare the Crown's Case against Wright, and not investigate any further into the matter."

"But that may result in an innocent man being convicted! You can't want that!"

I touched a nerve. "I don't want that!" he snapped. "It's still chain of command. And I was ordered to prepare the Crown's Case."

June looked like she wanted to say something. I shook my head 'no' and she remained silent. Rowe took a pencil from his desk and tapped it nervously on the blotter, weighing if he would express an inner frustration or remain silent. "This is big. Five men brutally murdered? The Home Office wants resolution– The public demands resolution. I don't suppose either of you know the Clerkenwell bombing?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar."

"Fenians tried a prison break. Too much explosive. Lot of damage. Public demanded action. Innocent man ended up hanged. Oh, he was a Fenian, but he had nothing to do with the bombing. Those at the top want things closed. Maybe you know more of Breaker Morant?"

"South Africa, Boer War... Charged with killing civilians wasn't he?"

"Oh, and he did. He admitted it. I was there at the trial. But the question that wasn't asked was whether there were orders from higher up."

"Are you suggesting someone in the Home Office–"

"No. Sorry, poor example. The Clerkenwell bombing is more appropriate. Although it took perjured evidence for that conviction. There will be no need for perjured evidence here. The little we know will be enough to convict."

"Do you really believe he is guilty?"

Rowe spread his arms in a 'who knows' gesture. "Not for me to say. For the courts to decide. I'm to organize the evidence, but I was ordered to close my investigation. Now, if someone were to bring me more evidence I'd be obliged to re-open the case and investigate further. Perhaps Wright has some friend who might try and find exonerating information."

A sideways glance at June suggested to me that she was ecstatic at the news, but she was trying hard to contain her emotion and might manage to remain silent if I didn't bollix the next few minutes. "May I ask a few questions?"

The old boy positively beamed, "I'd be delighted to help an officer seeking to aid one of his lads."

"Has the owner of the car been identified?"

"Yes, apparently one of the men who was killed."

"Apparently? Ownership is unclear?"

"Identification of the victims is unclear. We obviously don't have fingerprints for positive identification. Three of the victims had their heads rather cleanly severed. They might have been drugged or drunk at the time of the killing. The other two exhibit more extensive wounds. Perhaps there was a fight before the killer, or killers, was able to murder them."

"What can you tell me about the murdered men?"

"Anything you want to know. I haven't been ordered to remain silent."

"Well... To be honest, I'm not sure what to ask about the victims. What do you believe is important?"

"Assuming our identification is correct they were members of a gang. The owner of the vehicle... Head suffered the worst in the decapitation – entire lower jaw missing... He was the leader. The names of the individuals are... I'll have Thrush write them up for you. They were loosely associated with the Elephant and Castle Mob. If I were investigating the murders I might look into "Darby" Sabini. He and the gangs associated with him are constantly in conflict with the Elephant and Castle boys. May ask Thrush to write up some basic information on the gangs for you as well."

I would have preferred someone other than Robin Thrush, who exhibited far too much interest in June – in my opinion. But I decided beggars can't be choosers and should be grateful for the offer of any assistance. I thanked him. "The morphine found in the auto?"

"Passage of the Dangerous Drugs Act has affected availability of narcotics more than demand. Now that unregulated sale is illegal we're seeing some of the gangs take more of an interest in distribution. It is a relatively new area for them, but I fear it will be a lucrative area for them to move into."

"I think I hear you saying that competition over the sale of drugs might be the reason for the murders?"

"You heard me say no such thing. The case I'm to prepare for the crown will suggest Wright, acting on his own, murdered the five and stole the drugs."

"Ask how they got the tip to arrest Mucky," June whispered.

"And I was wondering why you suspected Wright? What drew the officer's attention to him?"

Rowe smiled, either because June had kept her place, or because she had asked a fine question. "An anonymous phone call came in, advising we look for the vehicle and suggesting officers search the boot. Wright had some trouble driving it and had been in a bit of smash-up, but we might not have searched the boot without the call."

"Isn't the call suspicious?"

"If I were investigating the case I might find it suspicious. The report I will write suggests a neighbor as the anonymous source."

I asked a few more questions. Rowe handed me his card as we left, and wished us luck.

"We need to see Robin on our way out," June reminded me.

"Why?" I grumbled.

"For the names of the victims, information on them, and anything about the gangs which might be useful. Honestly, do you think you can say a magic word and gather the information? Being a detective is hard work."

"I'm not a detective and neither are you," I reminded her. But I conceded the point. We needed to stop and talk with Thrush and ask him to prepare a file of information. He repeated his offer to take June off my hands for the evening, but she reminded him that he needed to compile the evidence we would need.

As we left the Yard June suddenly asked, "I said you can't say a magic word and make things happen... Is that a wand you carry?"

"Wand?"

"You usually have it up your sleeve." She reached over and felt my arm. "There."

"Just a lucky... It's a club thing," I lied as I hailed a cab.

On the cab ride I complimented June for her ruse, "Very clever of you to avoid Thrush by claiming I had asked you to dinner and the theater."

"Why would I want to avoid Robin? He's very good looking, isn't he?"

"No he's not!"

"Of course he is. You can pick me up in a hour for dinner?"

"You really expect me to take you out to dinner?"

"Of course. We need to talk about our plans."

"Without the information there will be very little to talk about."

"Then we shall find other things to talk about. Will you take me to eat at your club? It seems the most exclusive club in London and I'd love to see it."

"What do you know about..."

"About The Wand Club? Precious little. Membership may be by invitation only. It may have been the first club to allow women members, and many of the members are terribly eccentric. Invitations to dine are rare to non-members, but rumor has it they are allowed."

"How do you even know that?" I demanded.

"Oh, I ask questions. The mysterious house of Malfoy has always intrigued me."

I gave a fleeting thought to attempting a memory charm, then remembered I'd apparently created some sort of interference on my ability to erase her memory. I'd gotten very good with memory charms during the war. There were many times the skill had come in handy. Maybe I should contact the charms instructor at Hogwarts and see if there was some way to 'fix' the botched charm I'd attempted years ago.

"Well?" she demanded, interrupting my pensive silence.

"Eh?"

"Your club. Will you take me there to dine tonight before the theater?"

"And the theater? Surely you don't plan on talking there?"

"Of course not, it is my reward to you for taking me out to dinner."

"How is it a reward?"

"You will be seen in public with a pretty girl. It will be very good for your reputation... I suppose I could call Robin on the telephone and say you've changed your–"

"No. No need to contact the detective. I'd be delighted to have the prettiest girl in the theater on my arm, exciting the envy of every man jack in the audience."

"Ohh, that's very sweet, Tibsy," she giggled and snuggled against my arm.

We sent the cab away and I took my car to the Malfoy house in London. "I'm going out for dinner and an evening at the theater," I told Nigel. "Have something laid out for me after I'm done washing-up."

I didn't care for the tie Nigel had selected. I picked out a better one to wear.

I found a parking spot in front of the March home. We would take cabs for the evening's entertainment. Even with magic finding a place to park near the restaurant or theater would be impossible. A servant opened the door. "Miss March requests you wait in the sitting room, she shall be down shortly."

Not sure why I thought she would be ready when I arrived... Oh, it was because she had told me to be there at this time. Silly me, imagining it meant she would be ready. The wait was worth it. I let out a low whistle of surprise when she swooped in, "You really will be the most beautiful woman there, wherever we go."

"Thanks awfully," she giggled. "I told you that being seen with me would be your reward for... Tibsy?"

"Yes?"

"Didn't your man arrive?"

"He did. Why?"

"You need to sack Nigel. He chose a terrible tie! It won't do at all. Hold on, maybe I can find one in a brother's wardrobe."

I could have tied it myself. But it was very pleasant having June tie it for me. Since we would not receive the reports from Detective Thrush before tomorrow there was very little to discuss in terms of how we might help Mucky. But we found other things to talk about, and, of course, there was little need to talk at the theater. I asked her out for cocktails afterward, but she reminded me there was work to do on the morrow and wanted me up at some ungodly hour to begin our investigations. I conceded the point.

The plan called for the cab to drop us off in Mayfair, then I'd take my car to the Malfoy house. But a saloon was parked in such a way I wouldn't be able to drive my car. I was running through my mind for an appropriate curse when June exclaimed, "Father's here."

"What?"

"Our new car. Do you want to come in and... What did you decide?"

"Decide?"

"I suggested you tell him we were lovers. Surely you remember."

"I remember he was carrying a large bore shotgun, and I didn't survive the trenches to return home and be perforated in London."

"I doubt he brought the shotgun to the city."

"It has been a wonderful evening with you, let's not spoil it now by finding out whether he did or not."

"Should I assume you don't want to come in and ask him politely to move his car? If you would rather not you might leave me your key and I'll drive over to your house in the morning."

It was not clear which I feared more, June's father with a shotgun, or the thought of June behind the wheel of the Bentley. The shotgun was far less dangerous, but the Bentley could be replaced, if necessary. My reluctance showed with how slowly I handed her the key.

"See you at eight," she chirped and bestowed a fast kiss on my cheek before jumping from the cab.

* * *

 **Notes**

The Strand Magazine published general interest articles and fiction from 1891 to 1950. Detective fiction was popular. Sherlock Holmes lays uncontested claim to the title of most famous character to emerge from The Strand, but plenty of other detectives, female as well as male, and the occasional rogue starred in stories and series.

The former rank of Divisional Detective Inspector existed in the Metropolitan Police from late 19th through early 20th century.

The Irish Potato Famine brought hunger to millions. Hundreds of thousands starved to death. Hundreds of thousands migrated. The migrants brought with them a deep hatred toward the English for their indifference to the Irish plight. The Fenian Brotherhood began in the United States and called for the independence of Ireland. The movement later spread back to Ireland as well. In the United States Fenians, many of them veterans of the American Civil War, bought weapons with a plan to free Ireland by invading Canada. The US government tended to let them move forward with their plans. (Free Ireland by invading Canada from the US? We are dealing with the Irish, who had probably consumed a lot of potent potables when making their plans.) A number of small scale invasions of Canada were attempted from the US side of the border, none of which freed Ireland. Eventually even the US found them embarrassing and worked to stop them. The Clerkenwell bombing was the most notorious act of the Fenians in Britain. An attempt to free a member of the Brotherhood from Clerkenwell prison in 1867 resulted in the deaths of twelve and injury to a hundred and twenty, along with extensive property damage. Michael Barrett was convicted, and hanged in 1868. (The last public hanging in Britain.) It is widely believed his conviction rested on perjured testimony – the public was demanding someone be executed for the crime.

Plug Uglies... American street gang of the 1850s. Not sure when it became a generic term for any sort of remarkably unattractive person.

Mills Bomb = the most popular sort of hand grenade used by British troops in World War I.

For a long time England believed anyone should be able to go in and buy any sort of drug. (They even declared war on China, and killed thousands of Chinese, when the Chinese government tried to forbid English merchants from smuggling in opium - see Opium Wars) Want a heroin fix? Morphine to help you sleep? Opium to stop the baby's teething pain? All available over the counter. Some started to suspect this was not a good policy, and the evidence of drug addiction among the wounded soldiers of the Great War led the Home Office to try and limit availability of narcotics for everything but physician recognized medicinal purposes. Malcolm Delevingne was one of the individuals working to make drugs less available and was an architect of the Dangerous Drugs Act of 1920. Of course, just like Prohibition in the US was popular with organized crime, which made mobsters rich distributing bootleg booze, so the Dangerous Drugs Act made narcotics even more profitable for London's gangs.

London gangs made much of their money through involvement with racing, under the Race Course Bookmakers and Backers Protection Association. In addition to taking bets there was also a bit of mugging and protection rackets on the side. Competition for territory and sources of revenue put some gangs in competition with others, or made loose alliances mutually beneficial. The Elephant and Castle Mob were one of the gangs of the period, and they were in conflict with the the mobs allied with 'Darby' Sabini. (The Forty Elephants, a female gang, were allied with the Elephant and Castle Mob.)

In 1922 some cars had keys, some did not. Even on those with keys, however, it was not used to start the engine. The key unlocked the starter, and the starter button (located in different places on different makes/models) then started the engine.


	3. When Will You Pay Me?

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

 **When will you pay me? Say the bells of Old Bailey**

House elves are better than valets because? Because they don't look surly when you wake them up after midnight and instruct them to awaken you at seven-fifteen. Of course Nigel had additional reason to look resentful, I had rejected the tie he had laid out for me. And I am quite certain he took a smug satisfaction in being told June declared the tie of my own choosing inappropriate and questioned his taste in selecting it... I wouldn't have even mentioned her criticism to him except for the fact that, should she someday meet Nige, she might question his taste and he needed to know to accept the blame.

June arrived more promptly than I expected, and tooted the horn with far too much enthusiasm for the neighborhood at eight in the morning. I headed for the driver's side to replace her behind the wheel, but she waved me away. "Passenger side! I'm driving!"

"It's not your car," I shouted. And in response she put the Bentley in gear and began to drive away without me. I sprinted after her and she slowed enough to let me catch up.

"I wish you'd remember we're in a dreadful hurry," she scolded as I climbed in the passenger seat.

"A dreadful hurry?"

"Yes, we're lunching with father and–"

"When was that decided?"

"This morning, and–"

"And if it was decided this morning, how was I to remember it?"

"Mind reading isn't one of your abilities?"

"No one can read minds," I growled.

"Oh," she replied in an innocent voice, "I'm never certain what you can do."

"Just drive," I sighed. The rumor, in Slytherin, was that wizards in other houses had a saying, 'Beware of Slytherin witches'. I don't know if that is true. In Slytherin the saying among the wizards was, 'Beware of Ravenclaw witches'. I felt a greater need to be wary around June March than I had ever felt around a Ravenclaw witch. "Am I allowed to ask for our plans, or shall I inquire about your plans."

" _My_ plans are deep, Tibsy. But _our_ plans will take us to Brixton, then to the Yard for Robin's file, and then lunch at the Troc. We shall try and find your Ginger in the afternoon and by dinner time we will have enough information to begin our work."

The guards at Brixton were initially reluctant to let me see Mucky. The fact I had been his CO brought a little sympathy, but he was considered a dangerous prisoner and it would take more than sympathy. "But this is his solicitor," I explained, pointing to June, "Portia Pettifogger. Surely you wouldn't deny him access to his solicitor?"

"A woman solicitor?" one guard asked in disbelief.

"Brilliant mind," I whispered and tapped my forehead with a finger in a gesture that usually signified 'totally barmy'.

The guards conferred briefly, and June gave me a dirty look. "There is probably some law against misrepresenting yourself like that," she hissed.

"I didn't misrepresent myself," I reminded her. "I misrepresented you."

"You'll be receiving my bill," she grumbled.

A guard gestured for us for us to follow him, while another guard went to fetch Mucky.

My assumption about him taking the auto proved incorrect. "Hired I was," Mucky insisted.

"By whom?"

"Hoswalt... Hoswalt Smollet. The man what owned the car."

"He hired you?"

"Yeah, he... He hired me now han' then. Hi was probably deliverin' somethin' hillegal, but what with my record hit's hard to find honest work. Hi never looked no how at what was there. Hi'd drive, real careful you know, han' bring hit to Sam. He'd give me a few quid han' Hi'd take the omnibus home."

"So when did he ask you to make a delivery?"

"Night before."

"He asked the night before, and you didn't see him on the morning when you arrived to make the delivery. Was that unusual?"

"Umm... Wasn't first time, but didn't happen hoften. Couple times before, maybe. Hi didn't think nothin' hof it."

"And where were you supposed to drive the auto that day?"

"Was to take hit to Claridge's Hi was."

"Was that where you usually made your delivery?"

"Nah, weren't no set place. Claridge's or the Savoy hor hother toity place where the swells holds their parties."

June and I spoke with him for another fifteen minutes or so, but he could remember nothing which seemed to be of value.

She reluctantly surrendered the key to the Bentley. "You were right, he seemed a very ordinary man," June told me as I left the prison. "Can we assume he was being used to deliver narcotics?"

"It seems a safe assumption. And I might even believe that he didn't know what he was delivering."

"So, in terms of suspects we should look for competition for the gang, or someone they sold drugs to not wanting to pay them?"

"Two reasonably good motives. It might also be the person or persons above Smollet in the supply chain."

"Above? Why would someone above want to eliminate her distributors?"

"Her?"

"Equality of the sexes. But the question stands."

"Person on top might want to get out of the narcotics business and eliminate witnesses. Or Smollet might have tried blackmail."

"You might be a gentleman detective yet. You have a devious mind."

She positively gushed over Detective Thrush when he handed us the dossier. It was flirtatious and utterly disgusting.

The five members of the gang had all been arrested at different times in the past. We looked at the photos taken at the times of their arrests and Thrush gave us the high points of their criminal careers. Oswalt Smollet was the leader of the group. Samuel Gilbert, the Sam to whom Mucky made deliveries, was probably second, with Thomas Greene, Leslie Ahrens, and Noel Sutton as the remaining members of the gang. When the detective handed over a second file he warned June, "I wouldn't look at these."

"Why not?"

"Pictures of the heads."

"I need to see them if I'm going to help."

I heard a little intake of breath when she saw the pictures. If you've seen men blown to bits around you and been splattered with bits of skull and brain, or if you've learned to live with the smell of rotting corpses from no-man's land the pictures were not especially shocking. I compared them with the mug shots we had seen. "Rowe said it was difficult to identify Smollet and Gilbert. I see what he meant."

"I suspect the murderer had a particular hatred towards Smollet, and did greater violence to the body on purpose."

"Appears likely. May we keep the files?"

"Ah... You can take them with you, but they remain property of the Yard. You are not so show them to anyone connected with the papers."

"That's fine. I will want to look everything over in greater detail."

" _We_ shall look it over," June told me.

"I was hoping, after Mister Malfoy paid his debt of honor by taking you out last night, that I might have the honor of taking you to dinner tonight," he invited.

"Oh, possibly," she half-promised. "But I know Tibsy is ever so grateful for all you've done. I'm sure he wants you to accompany us to the Trocadero for lunch."

It so happens I did not want him to accompany us to lunch or anywhere else. I started to open my mouth to make my feelings clear and June stepped delicately on my foot and shook her head 'no'. Which is when I remembered we were meeting June's father at the Trocadero for lunch. Perhaps she thought her father unlikely to make an attempt on my life in the presence of a detective. Or perhaps she expected Thrush to arrest her father for my murder.

Mucky's claim that the auto wasn't stolen and that he had been hired to make a delivery didn't count as new evidence. Rowe had questioned the prisoner and heard the claim. Whether it could be verified with the witnesses to the transactions being dead was doubtful. The early editions had published it as stolen, but saw no point in changing the report based on the claim of the prisoner. And Thrush warned that it made no difference in the Crown's case against him.

I coughed to catch Thrush's attention, "I know this request will be highly irregular, but I know someone who might be able to tell something about the origin of the morphine if it's possible for me to obtain a small uncontaminated sample."

"That is irregular... But I was told to cooperate with you. How much are you talking about."

"To be honest, I'm not certain. A quarter ounce should do, but don't touch it. And the sample needs to be collected with something silver, a spoon, blade, it doesn't matter the shape – but the material used to take the sample should be silver."

"That makes a difference?"

"I believe so. I'm not even certain the chap will be able to provide an analysis, but I believe that is the requirement. Oh, if I can get the sample seal it in three or four envelopes – wouldn't want me to accidentally contaminate it myself."

Luck was with me and Thrush obtained the sample. Whether luck would continue with me or not I wasn't certain. Seers are not always reliable and I'd not consulted the wizard in Diagon Alley who claimed the power, but I had hopes. I didn't ask if Thrush obtained legal permission or he took it into his own head to do it to please June. But she squealed with delight and gave him a hug before we left for lunch and I felt luck deserting me.

She was literally hanging on his arm in a shameless manner as we entered the Troc. The whole scene was utterly revolting. Seeing her father she began waving wildly with her left arm (her right arm remaining entwined with his left), "Papa! We're here!"

I had noticed Squire March at the same time as June. He had been sitting, sans shotgun, with a deep scowl on his face. June's 'Hullo' caught his attention and his scowl turned to a puzzled frown at the sight of June hanging on the arm of a handsome stranger while I stood uselessly to the side.

June made introductions, snuggling cozily at the detective's side, gushing about how is was the brother of a dear friend from school and a very sweet man. June's father continued to look puzzled, but it appeared any hatred he had felt towards me had been transferred to Thrush. And Thrush was a stupid block of wood, with no comprehension of the animosity coming at him from two directions – he saw nothing but her smiling face and heard nothing but her voice.

"Robin is taking me out to dinner tonight," she cheerfully told her father.

"Just a Corner House," he stammered in an apologetic fashion. "Nothing fancy."

"That will be wonderful," she assured him, "and perhaps the cinema afterward?"

Her father looked like he contemplated violence. I changed the subject with "I came to London to try and clear one of the lads in my platoon. June said she knew someone who might be able to help."

"Help one of your lads?"

"Yes. Perhaps you saw the case in the papers. He was driving a car with five severed heads in the boot and a container of morphine."

"Terrible thing. Terrible. Papers say he's a hardened thief."

"He has a disease, Papa, it's called kleptomania. And Tibsy is going to find who really killed those men."

"I'm trying. And I really do believe my boy was innocent."

The conversation turned to the weather and crops, and George March continued to glance daggers at the detective. At the end of lunch he pulled me aside for a moment, "I, ah, wish to apologize for yesterday. I was, um, cleaning my gun, and..."

"And heard me blow the horn and ran out to greet me?"

"Um, yes. Exactly so. What do you know about this detective chap?"

"I don't know him well."

"Do you know how long he's been acquainted with June?"

"No," I lied.

"Well, I don't trust him."

"I don't know him well, Sir, but we share similar feelings."

He nodded, "Er, your feelings towards my daughter?"

"She's always been like a sister to me."

"Good... Well, if you can, keep an eye on her. She's... ah..."

"Headstrong?"

"Yes, very headstrong indeed. If you could keep her away from that detective chap as much as possible I'd, ah..."

"I shall do my best," I promised.

After returning Detective Thrush to Metropolitan Police Headquarters I had words with June before we headed to Hyde Park. "Must you behave like a shameless flirt?"

"Whatever to you mean?"

"Your behavior with that Thrush fellow."

"If we are critiquing behavior, I must say you are utterly rude. First you refuse to help me calm father's poor nerves. And then, when I try and clear your good name, you call me a shameless flirt."

"That was how you were behaving!"

"And did my father threaten you in any way? I saw the two of you in a _tête-à-tête_ before we left."

"So that whole scene was a charade for your father's benefit?"

"It was a wonderful bit of misdirection on my part, don't you think? They say that misdirection is the basis of stage magic. What do you think of magic?"

I tried remain focused, "I repeat my question, that scene was for your father's benefit alone?"

"Oh, not entirely. I managed to protect your new suit from perforation. And Robin is very handsome."

"Please tell me you are not going out with him this evening."

"What a curious request... You want me to lie to you?"

"No. I don't want you going out with him."

"Why? I mean, he asked freely and of his own will. I had to twist your arm to obtain an invitation from you yesterday."

I lapsed into sullen silence.

"Besides," she pointed out. "You need to see your chemist."

"My chemist?"

"The one who'll do the analysis on the morphine."

"Attempt an analysis. There is no guarantee of results."

"And I suspect you will not invite me to meet this fellow."

"Why would you want to meet a... a chemist?"

"Oh, just curiosity. I imagine that any laboratory which might be capable of such an analysis must be amazing."

I changed the subject, "I hope Ginger Muggs will know something useful."

"Is he unemployed?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"This seems an odd hour to be free."

"He does rotogravure work for The Illustrated London News. They don't care what hours he keeps, as long as his work is done before the deadline to print an issue."

We found Ginger at the Speaker's Corner. He wasn't speaking, but was one of several men handing pamphlets to anyone who showed interest in the message of a speaker.

"Comrade, Sir," Ginger grinned and gave me a salute.

"Comrade Private," I said returning the salute.

June looked puzzled, "He doesn't have red hair."

"No, but his politics are red. June, this is Ginger Muggs. Ginger, June March."

"The girl who sent you letters on the front? Thought I'd have seen notice of your marriage by now."

"She was just doing her part of keep up the morale of the men in the trenches."

"And I obviously could not have bestowed my attention on a more ungrateful object," complained June.

"She was just fifteen," I pointed out.

"She appears to have recovered nicely," Ginger replied. He looked at June, "Twenty? Twenty-one?"

"Twenty-one in two months."

"We're not here to talk about her age. Badger called me when he heard the news about Mucky. He said Mucky kipped with you?"

"Aye. Lot of lads with trouble finding jobs, harder for him than most. Best suited for a lighthouse out on a rock. Right terrible that arrest."

"You don't think he did it, do you?"

"Of course not. That Oswalt was a bad 'un. I told Mucky he should do naught for the man, nothing but trouble. Now looks like trouble caught up with Oswalt and poor Mucky may swing for it."

Ginger told me that he'd been interviewed by Detective Rowe, and repeated the time schedule he'd give the police for me. Mucky had said he was to make a delivery when he had last talked with Ginger. Given the time frame between that conversation and the arrest it seemed impossible that Wright could have murdered five men in brutal fashion, stuffed their heads in a bag, and had time to change clothes before the arrest. There was no blood on him when arrested. But there would have been a great deal of blood on whoever committed the murders. Rowe might be vague on time schedule in the case he prepared. Or he might suggest Mucky had murdered the gang before his conversation with Ginger.

"Detective asked if any of Mucky's clothes were missing. He didn't have much, and I told him no. I think that should have shown he was innocent. Maybe detective wouldn't believe me because of the Party... Maybe he thinks poor Mucky is part of the communist plot."

"Maybe," I shrugged. Or maybe it made the old detective suspect Mucky really was innocent and that made him resent the order to stop the investigation enough he was willing to encourage a novice like me to seek further evidence.

June changed the subject, "I imagined there would be simply be one man up on a soap box haranguing passers-by. There seem to be number of you."

"Getting out the word on the National Unemployed Workers' Committee Movement and for safety."

"Safety?" I asked.

"Bobbies are better at protecting the right of free speech for some more than others. You remember Captain Drummond?" I nodded. "He and some of his friends have been known to come and push around speakers they don't like."

"If you don't mind," June asked. "You seem terribly chummy with Tibsy here. You even called him comrade. I thought his kind was supposed to be the first up against the wall when communists took over."

Ginger and I stared at each other, "She's been listening to the propaganda about us," Ginger said sadly. He looked at June. "You believe in equal rights for women?"

"Yes!"

"That's our position. Do you think anyone should be allowed to die of hunger here in Britain?"

"No."

"Our position too. We want to tear down social ranks and call for the equality of all people."

"But Tibsy here is part of that upper class."

Ginger thumped his chest, "But his heart is right. He knew the Germans weren't our enemies."

"They weren't?"

"No. It was the politicians on both sides. It was the men making the guns, and bombs, and gas. They were the enemy. Those of us starving and freezing on the front? We were naught but pawns to the real enemy. Didn't much matter what uniform we wore. We were brothers."

"You'll have here thinking we played whist with the Huns," I warned Ginger. I told June, "There were areas where it felt like the troops were nothing more than animals to be slaughtered for some purpose they were never told. There were quiet sectors where we saw less action. But we still saw too many men killed."

"Our sector had the lowest number of Silver War Badges and MMs of any section of the front," Ginger told her. "We also had the lowest casualty rate of any platoon on the front. You ask a man if he'd rather have a VC or his own two pins to walk around on, he'd take his legs over the honor."

I reluctantly returned June to Mayfair. My arguments against her going out with detective Thrush fell on deaf ears.

"You might have considered asking me before he had the chance," she told me.

I was in an unusually foul mood when I returned to Belgrave. I managed to catch myself before yelling at Nige. June was a flirtatious little idiot and not worth being upset over. Nigel had done nothing wrong. I reminded myself of those facts several times before telling him I needed something casual, I'd probably just stop at some chop house for supper before heading to Diagon.

* * *

I'd not consulted a seer before. In my opinion those claiming the power are frauds. But rumor championed a decent one in Diagon, who made no extravagant claims for himself. But I was still not optimistic when I headed for The Leaky Cauldron and passed through into London's wizard quarter.

My third request for, "Directions to Cunningham the seer?" steered me to a door between a potions shop and bakery. A flight of rickety wooden steps took me up over the potions shop. Several doors opened off the narrow hallway, one bore the sign, 'C. Cunningham, consulting seer,' a small hanging sign on the door read, 'Go in, you're expected. Please turn this over before entry'. Turning the sign rang a small bell behind the door and the back on the sign suggested, 'Return later. The seer is engaged at the moment'. I pushed the door open and saw a woman, probably a bit older than my mother, sitting at an ornate table, a shelf with a various of apparatus took up the wall behind her. "Will you inform the seer that–"

"I'm Constance Cunningham, and I am the seer. You are Tiberius Malfoy and highly skeptical of my ability to help you. You should be. Your man is left-handed. And while you spent the day in the company of a pretty young woman from a good family you are not here to ask about matters of the heart. I believe your concern relates to your time in the service."

I wondered if my jaw literally dropped, "That's–"

"That is nothing. There are few wizards or witches who can't identify the Malfoys. If you had any faith in seers you'd have been here before you went to France, most wizards serving at the front did. And therefore it's nothing but common sense. The perfume whose smell still clings to you is that of a young woman and was not cheap. The aroma would not remain about you unless you spent most of the day with her. You are not the sort of man to spend the day with a plain woman... Nor would you spend time with one who was not intelligent. She was both. But you are not here to talk of her. I make no guarantee my powers can help, but I will do what I can."

"None of that was–"

"None of that was other than using my brain and observation. I charge for real services."

"If you can tell me why I'm here I'll believe you have the power."

"Sit," she ordered and pointed to an old chair covered in cracked horse-hair fabric.

She put her finger tips together and stared at me a few minutes. "I am correct that the matter which brought you here relates you your time in service. The muggle arrested in the case of the severed heads was in your platoon. You have something..." She closed her eyes momentarily, then reopened them, "Something from the crime scene, inner pocket on the left side of your jacket. It will be difficult material to work with, but I might be able to get a reading... My readings are visual. I almost never receive names, but sometimes receive more information than simple images. There is additional billing beyond images – but it is worth the price when it occurs. Knowing that, you will still ask me to attempt a vision. You should ask me about the young woman. You will not. You will regret that piece of stubbornness on your part."

As it happened I had no interest in asking any questions about June. If she wanted to eat dinner and attend the cinema with the detective it was her affair, not mine. "It's some morphine from that which was found with the heads," I explained as I removed the envelope and handed it to her.

"Assuming I can see a vision of faces and locations associated with the narcotic it will start recently and move backward in time. I have some control over the speed of the vision, but not direction. After it moves further back I can not bring it forward again." She hefted the envelopes with the drug. "You brought enough I might be able to do more than one reading."

From a nested stack of shallow silver bowls and dishes she selected a small dish and put it on the table in front of her. She placed a small quantity of the drug in the bowl, then put large cast iron ring around the dish, then placed a large crystal dome in the iron ring. She lit three colored tapers around the gazing crystal, tapped the dome with her wand and murmured a charm. I saw nothing, but I make no claims for the gift.

"Movements today, but no face... I assume your movements, which you already know. And it difficult to give precise locations because you were on the move. You had the narcotics sealed well."

"Thank you. You can pinpoint locations?"

"Pinpoint would be inaccurate. I can 'see' the location, and may recognize it precisely. Or I may simply 'see' the location without knowing exactly where it is." She gazed into the crystal. "Police. I assume this is from the evidence room at the Yard. Have you any interest in the police officers who might have seen it?"

"No."

"Then I can scroll through them quickly."

She made a gesture. I was vaguely curious whether she would have seen Detective Thrush or if the silver had masked him completely. But I was not here for idle curiosity.

"Ah, before the evidence room. A bobby examining... This would be the time of the arrest."

"The face before the arrest. I need to know the face of he person who put the drugs in the automobile."

Her gestures slowed as she scrolled back in the history of the sample. She began describing the last man to handle the morphine before the accident. It was a familiar face – fortunately not Mucky.

"Oswalt Smollet."

"Who?" she asked.

"The man whose face you are describing. He was the leader of the gang that was murdered. Do you have a location?"

She couldn't name a precise address, but she saw enough details of the scene to allow identification. The location matched the address of Smollet's flat. I had hoped for the face of the murderer, but appeared to have discovered nothing.

"Would you like me to go back a little further?"

"How far can you go back?"

"Not to the growers or initial manufacture. There are too many grains of narcotic from too many producers mixed together. But I can give you the face and location for those who supplied it to your Smollet."

Not sure what she might find I agreed, "Go ahead."

I recognized the location she described prior to Smollet and frowned, an office of the War Pensions Agency. She described two men, then moved back to the delivery of the drug from–

"Stop. I want to know more of those men at the Agency."

"I told you, the visions only go backward in time. I can't return once past."

"Did you say there was enough for another reading? Will it show the same faces?"

"It should, if the charm was correctly cast both times. Do you believe one of them may be the murderer?"

"Worse than a murderer," I told her, "I think the drugs were intended to help the pain of disabled soldiers, but were stolen for the black market."

She nodded, "You are likely correct. But the vision only indicates they were associated with the shipment. It doesn't prove theft or say which of the men was guilty of the theft."

"Or it could have been both. I'll find out," I threatened, trying hard to suppress the anger I felt. "Can you repeat the vision? I want a very clear description." I took copious notes, but had her repeat the details so often I was certain they were indelibly pressed on my mind and I wouldn't need the notes. "Thank you," I told her.

She reached across the table and plucked a hair from the sleeve of my jacket. "From your young woman."

"She's not my young woman! And I said I didn't–"

A strange look came over her face. "A Delphic vision."

"What?"

"A vision, or message, whose meaning isn't clear to the seer. Perhaps it will mean something to you. The message is that the young woman has already shown you the answer."

"How? What answer?"

"I told you, a Delphic vision is a bit like prophecy, the meaning is not clear to the seer. We could speak of the woman you spent the day with, I assume she is the woman in the vision. However, you do not wish to speak of her."

"I certainly do not."

"Very well. Please turn the sign over on the door as you leave."

The latch on the door locked behind me as I closed the door from the outside. When I flipped the sign over the message had changed. It now read. 'You have missed the seer. Try another time.' I cursed myself for letting my anger with June for going out with Thrush cloud my judgement. Perhaps the witch could give me a clue to the cryptic message. But the door was locked, and she didn't answer my knock. I stood, uncertain, outside the door for a few minutes. At least I had a plan of action for tomorrow morning. It might, or might not, benefit Mucky but it must be done. And it would require a stop at the potions shop below for a number of ingredients. I tried to remember if there was a hip flask at the London house or if I needed to purchase one of those also.

* * *

 **Notes**

The Brixton prison dates to 1819, in terms of origin. (There have, of course, been many changes over the years.) After the renovations of 1898 it became the prison for the entire London area.

Jo Lyons & Co. opened their large and upscale Trocadero in 1894, but are perhaps better known for the chain of moderately priced Corner Houses which began opening in 1909. 'Nippies', the waitresses at Corner Houses, wore black and white uniforms.

Drawings/Photos in newspapers were produced by a process known as rotogravure. The Illustrated London News, founded in 1842, was the first weekly news magazine to focus on pictures. In the early years it was mostly drawings, but by the 1920s photos dominated.

Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park has been available for the public presentation of a range of views from the 19th century with relatively few limits on what can be expressed.

The Communist Party was recognized/organized in 1920, but British communists had been around for years prior to organization. They began the National Unemployed Workers' Committee Movement in 1921 to advocate for the unemployed. It also organized hunger marches to draw attention to the plight of the poor.

Captain Hugh "Bulldog" Drummond starred in a number of novels beginning with a 1920 story in The Strand Magazine. In the early novels, reflecting the Red Scare of the era, Drummond and his friends would kill instigators of vague communist plots without need of the police. Jews were simply beaten up and told to get out of England. There were warnings against anyone who wanted to educate poor children (clearly a dangerously radical idea). Eventually, after Hitler began advocating the ideas the novels had presented, Drummond was toned down and made a friend of high officials in Scotland Yard for the later novels and movies. Another mystery writer denied 'Bulldog' Drummond deserved the title of gentleman detective, insisting he was more of a schoolyard bully. His powers of deduction were pretty close to zero, but he always lucked out and found bad guys to kill (although he was often outwitted and the ringleader escaped to seek revenge in the next novel).

The Silver War Badge was given to soldiers discharged from the service due to injury, while the Military Medal (MM) was given for bravery in the field. The Victoria Cross (VC) was given for conspicuous heroism, and relatively few were awarded. The trenches stretched for hundreds of miles. Conditions varied along the front and some areas were seen as quiet sectors - where by unspoken agreement both sides were willing to accept the status quo and little fighting was done.

Britain was not alone is being unprepared to deal with the huge numbers of casualties from the Great War. The old British system relied heavily on voluntary charity, which was utterly overwhelmed. In 1915 a clumsy system called the War Pensions Agency created, united, and divided new and existing programs in an attempt to serve the needs of veterans. I've not found an article which makes sense of the Agency, possibly because it didn't make any sense. But I believe a section of the Agency was given responsibility for those whose wounds required long-term care. If any specialist in early 20th century British bureaucracy can provide clarity I will offer thanks for the information and sympathy for the agony you endured gathering it.


	4. When I Grow Rich

JK Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

 **When I grow rich, Say the bells of Shoreditch.**

I awoke as angry as I'd gone to bed the night before, but more focused. I felt certain I could identify the thief, or thieves, at the War Pensions Agency. It would require someone to offer a diversion and I thought a pretty girl might be ideal for the job – especially if it were a pretty girl with two wounded brothers who would feel as angry as I about the theft of medication.

With considerable effort I avoided asking George March when his daughter had returned home. He assuaged my curiosity without being asked, complaining it had been after midnight before she returned to the house.

My concern, that medication for wounded soldiers could have been stolen provoked less anger from him than I felt myself. But I didn't tell him the source of my information, and kept it vague enough that he hoped the 'rumor' I had heard was in err. He offered to help, and I turned down the gracious offer for his aid and requested June might accompany me.

In the car June complained, "I've done my work of clearing your good name too well. Now father is ordering me to help you. Your chemist really thought the morphine was stolen from the Pensions Agency?"

"It is a very likely. I've got a plan and–"

"What's the plan? Where do I fit into it? And what's my reward?"

"I was about to give you the plan, but I find your attitude entirely mercenary."

"A girl needs to look after her own interests. Is my part in your scheme dangerous?"

"Not a bit."

"I charge double for danger... For doing whatever it is you expect me to do this morning my fee shall be relatively low. You will take me to dinner at your Wand Club."

"I will not take you to dinner at the Wand Club. Dinner yes. Wand Club, no."

"I suppose I could call Robin. He asked if he could take me out to dinner again this evening. He's very handsome isn't he?"

"I paid no attention... And he puts on too much hair tonic. It reeks. And I said I would take you to dinner. I simply said I would not take you to the Wand Club."

"Which offer should I accept," mused June. "A handsome man, eager for my company, asks me out because he's interested in me. While my father orders me to aid another man, who only offers dinner after coercion, and is so ashamed to be seen with me he won't take me to his club. What is a girl to do?"

"Lunch," I muttered through gritted teeth. "If this goes as quickly as I hope lunch will be an option."

"At your club?"

"Yes, at my club," I snapped. "You are impossible."

"And yet your plan revolves around me."

"It doesn't require you, per se. I need a distraction. Any distraction would do."

"You could set fire to something. Fires can be a very effective distractions."

"I don't want a fire. I need a small distraction. And I have it on good authority that a pretty young woman is an excellent distraction."

"And?"

"And you are the prettiest young woman I know," I assured her, "who as available on short notice."

"You really need to work on your compliments, Tibsy," she sighed. "Or let me out and I can take a cab home."

"I apologize. I didn't mean for it to sound like–"

"It came out exactly like you meant it to sound. A girl with less spirit might be crushed at such treatment. It only serves to make me stronger."

I laughed, "Then I shall pay you real compliments. You look lovely this morning, my dear. Of course, you always look lovely. And so it is that young men who reek of cheap hair tonic are drawn to you like bees to a flame."

"Moths to a flame. Bees to honey. You are very poor with compliments. Should you wish to practice I will be available from three this afternoon until four-thirty to receive them."

"And after four-thirty?"

"Oh... I have plans."

"And they are?"

"I don't see why I should share them with a man who can't even pay me a decent compliment."

"I'm taking you to lunch."

"Only under duress. If my father knew how poorly you treated me he might look for a horsewhip."

"Still better than a twelve bore."

"Or you could try treating me better."

"I suppose... I have a confession to make."

"You murdered those five men?"

"No. The confession is that I enjoy teasing you. I find you exceedingly amusing."

"Perhaps that was meant as a compliment. If so you require further practice. Right now you need to tell me your plans. Your chemist was really able to determine the morphine was stolen from the Pensions Agency?"

"Probably," I lied. "You can't determine that precisely from analysis. But it provided me with a clue and I did some detective work and–"

"Without me? I thought I was indispensable. Why didn't you just have them arrested?"

"You are indispensable. And at the moment I have several good suspects... I won't even give you names until I know with certainty who might be involved." Lying seemed to make better sense than trying to explain the visions of a seer. And if, as I hoped, June gave me more credit than I deserved for uncovering the plot I was certainly willing to take it. "My plan is for you to wait somewhere – a tea shop would be ideal – while I try to narrow down my list of suspects to two. At that point I will fetch you. Your job will be to distract one while I speak with the other."

"What identity shall I assume?"

"Pardon?"

"I mean, I can't very well walk in and introduce myself as a distraction can I? I will need some plausible reason for going somewhere and talking to whoever."

"It is very annoying that I spend hours working my plan through in my mind, and you only require two minutes to see a hole in it. It probably reflects the fact you are indispensable to me. I'll have a better idea how you should present yourself when I discover exactly what his position is within the Agency."

"Very good."

After leaving June at a tea shop I went to the office in charge of ordering and distribution of supplies for the military hospitals. I would have loved to possess the gift of second sight and known where in the building I might find the men for whom I was looking. But the ability to describe one of them in detail, and the willingness to sound a bit confused allowed me to question a lower level clerk or two and find the name of a good possible suspect. He was a mid-level bureaucrat in the division of purchase and distribution of medicines. It was difficult to hide the smile on my face when I walked into the man's office and found he was obviously one of the men whose face had been seen in the vision. I didn't give my name, I was simply an officer asking general questions about the treatment my boys could expect. I smiled and nodded, pretending to believe every pat assurance he offered that England would do her best for the veterans. I moved closer, as if to hear him better, "Shelling affected my hearing," I explained. And in close proximity it was easy to obtain the prize I sought, I casually plucked a hair from off the sleeve of his jacket as I left.

Once outside his office I inserted the hair into the flask of polyjuice potion I had prepared. I returned the flask to my pocket, I would require the contents later.

With the name of Cedric Ramsey, and a detailed description of the other face from the seer yet another clerk was able to identify the man I had seen my old friend, Cedric Ramsey, talking with at a pub last week – his superior at the Agency. I found the man's office and blundered in, apologizing for entering the wrong office, and quickly backed out having identified him as the second man in the vision.

I retrieved Joan. "You are interested in the long term welfare of your brothers," I told her. "You want to know what the Agency will do if they need more rehabilitation or their wounds create further medical problems in later years."

"And this Ramsey is a doctor?"

"No, he's not. And he'll be annoyed that you are there bothering him and will try to get you out of his office. He can't help you with your question. But you have a friend who mentioned his name and you're quite certain he can help you and it may be difficult to convince you of your error."

"And while I'm pretending to be a little idiot and keeping this Ramsey occupied?"

"I'll be interviewing my second suspect. But it is vital that Ramsey doesn't walk in on me while I'm interviewing the second. I don't know their schedules. It is possible they don't even know each other. But it is vital that you keep Ramsey occupied."

She sighed and stared at me. "This seems very, very peculiar. But I will trust you. And after I've kept him out of your hair for twenty minutes?"

"You can leave... If I obtain information I may need to follow up on it, but will try to get a note to you."

"And the tea shop will be our rendezvous spot if you don't obtain information?"

"Agreed."

"And if you run into trouble and are discovered by the villain, knocked unconscious, and propped against a barrel of gunpowder with a burning fuse? How long should I wait before notifying the authorities of your absence?"

"Give me two hours."

"You'd better hope there is a long fuse on that barrel of gunpowder."

I pointed the door to Cedric Ramsey's office out to June, entered a washroom, and took a drink of the polyjuice potion. Two-thirds of a letter was tucked into my pocket, already written, stating that I'd discovered the morphine had been stolen. I'd wait until I discovered if I had one suspect, or two, before finishing the note.

My plan was simplicity itself. Now in the guise of Cedric Ramsey I went to the office of my superior with a worried air, "A young woman just left my office. She heard a rumor that narcotics have been stolen from those purchased for the army hospitals!"

If the supervisor, Smythe, was innocent he would be outraged and call for an investigation. If the supervisor was guilty of the thefts, and Ramsey innocent, he might feign outrage, but more likely he would dismiss the claim as a fantasy from an hysterical woman. He would assure Ramsey there were no problems with stolen narcotics. And if the pair was guilty the supervisor would plot with his subordinate.

"What was the woman's name? Where did she hear it?" It became obvious in seconds that Smythe and Ramsey worked the scheme together. I managed to calm him slightly, and we agreed we needed to meet after work to discuss how well any incriminating evidence had been hidden.

Once out of his office I took out the note I'd begun, scribbled a few more lines of information, and sealed it. According to my watch June should still be in the office of the real Ramsey for another four minutes. I moved to a hallway around the corner from Ramsey's office, and when asked by two passers-by why I was out of my office explained I was stretching a cramped leg muscle. June left the office precisely on time, and fortunately without Cedric Ramsey accompanying her. I gave her a lead of twenty seconds, then ran after her."

"Miss March?"

She turned and gave me a curious look, "Yes?"

"I was just handed this and asked to give it to you. Told you would know where to take it."

"Where did–" she started to ask, but I had turned and fled.

I waited in a washroom for the polyjuice potion to wear off. I had harbored a vague hope the Metropolitan Police might have arrived before I left, but they didn't. Still, I felt certain they were arrive within an hour or two as I exited the building and headed for the Yard.

June sat in the office of Chief Inspector Rowe. "Has anything been done yet?" I asked when ushered in.

"I wanted to speak with you for a few minutes before sending officers to investigate your allegations," Rowe told me. "You assert that two public servants are committing a very serious offense. It is not to be done lightly."

I discovered Rowe had lied to me... Well, not exactly lied. He had starting making plans for a raid on the Agency to examine records and collect possible evidence in addition to questioning Ramsey and Smythe before I arrived. He waited to talk with me before he dispatched the raid, and invited us to return in the late afternoon if we wished.

"But," he warned, "even if this is true, it doesn't clear your man Wright of the murder charge."

"No," I sighed, "I guess it doesn't."

"Now, assuming your allegations are true, it is possible that Smythe encouraged someone in the Home Office to close the investigation to keep the movement of the narcotics secret. Tomorrow, should there be evidence drugs were stolen from the Pensions Agency, I will request permission to re-open the murder investigation. That doesn't mean I believe your man is innocent, but it will allow the Yard to work further in the case. Will that be enough to let you return home?"

His offer made me think for a moment, "With all due respect, you can't be certain there will even be permission to re-open the murder investigation, and you may even believe Wright guilty. I feel certain he is innocent and wish to prove it."

The old boy actually smiled. "Well said."

"Excuse me," broke in June, "but it seems to me that the trail of the narcotics should be of interest to the Yard entirely apart from the murder of those five men. Should a case be opened to trace where the morphine went, as well as against the men from the Agency?"

"There is, at the moment, no case against the men at the agency," Rowe reminded her.

She waved it off, "A trifle. I have faith in the work Tibsy did in uncovering them. But shouldn't what happened still be of interest?"

Rowe looked at me, "A perspicuous argument from this young woman. She is correct. I can open an investigation into that without permission from the Home Office on re-opening the murder investigation. Now, since it is possible your own efforts to uncover the killers might coincide with our investigation into the drugs, can the Yard find a way to cooperate with you?"

"Assign the investigation to Robin," suggested June.

"Robin?"

"Detective Thrush," I muttered. "I don't think–"

"Tibsy is certain no one else could do the job so well. He already gathered information on the case for us."

I fumed as Rowe nodded in agreement. I didn't want Thrush's help, but couldn't find a way to voice my protest without sounding petty and jealous. I am neither petty nor am I jealous. I simply don't like detective Thrush and think he shows too much interest in June.

June took my arm as we left the Yard, "And now for lunch at your club."

I sighed, but had agreed.

"And why have you never told me you were a master of disguise?"

"Excuse me?"

"It was uncanny, really. You really looked like Ramsey."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You certainly do. That was you who ran up to me when I left the office of the real Ramsey and gave me the letter to bring to the yard."

"No it wasn't! I... I had time to find an actor to portray him. It was, um, part of... At least I assume he delivered the letter to you as I requested."

"I didn't tell the real Ramsey my real name. You called me Miss March."

"My actor called you Miss March."

"And the reason he was wearing your clothes?"

"My clothes?"

The clothes you are wearing now. They did not fit him well... Your clothes, but the man inside was a different size... That makes no sense."

I avoided the subject during the trip to The Wand Club, but knew she was thinking about it. "A private room?" I offered when we arrived. "They are said to be very nice." I had heard that only house elves served the private rooms, being more discrete than humans, but thought I could arrange for a human to serve if June agreed.

"Still ashamed to have your friends see me?"

"I just thought it might be easier for us to talk freely."

"Perhaps a private room next time, when you bring me again."

The club had two dining rooms. The occasional muggle guest would usually be served in the second room, which was as close to ideal as possible for me and my situation in the present circumstances. The second dining room also had the advantage that it tended to be used by younger witches and wizards and those who were more likely to be dressed in the style of the modern world. There was still the chance that, "The club has a few eccentric members."

"I believe all clubs have a few eccentric members."

"We have more than the average number. It is why I've tried to spare you."

"I can't imagine there can be anyone who would make me regret lunching with you. More likely I shall giggle very softly."

Our server held the chair for June. She looked about the room and I smiled. There was nothing out of the ordinary about the room, at the moment. It could have been one of a dozen other clubs. Except, of course, that those seated at the table were wizards and witches. I had at least a nodding acquaintance with almost everyone there, although a quick glance revealed no close friends lunching at the moment.

"Everyone looks so normal," June whispered.

"Why shouldn't they?"

"You said... Oh, two women just entered and are coming over."

I turned, looked, and swore under my breath. The Andrews sisters, Callista and Calliope. Not that I had anything against them. I knew them from Hogwarts and have taken Calliope out for dinner on occasion. At least I believe I've taken Calliope out for dinner. It is hard to tell, and the twins have a wicked sense of humor. I had definitely hoped to avoid anyone who could create problems, and the two were notorious for their impractical jokes.

"Tiberius," Callista called as she neared the table, "it has been far, far too long."

"You need to come in from the country more often," Calliope agreed. "It is so dead out there. The City is where you belong."

"Do you want to move to a larger table with us?" Callista suggested. "It would be jolly to catch up on your news."

"I was hoping for a quiet lunch with June."

The sisters looked at each other and giggled, "Oh, a quiet lunch. We should _so_ hate to disturb you."

Remembering my manners, or rather realizing that not making introductions could be even more damning than making them, "June, these are the Andrews sisters, Callista and Calliope. Callista, Calliope, I'd like you to meet a dear friend, June March."

Callista looked at Calliope, "I don't think I know any Marches, do you?"

"No," her sister replied. "I don't recognize the family."

June spoke, "J'ai fréquenté l'école à la Beauxbatons."

The sisters glanced at each other, shrugged, and moved away.

"What did you say," I demanded in a low voice.

"You didn't pick up any French during the war?"

"I know some French. What did you tell them?"

"Maybe I pronounced it poorly. I never had high marks in French."

"I asked what you told them!"

"What did it sound like I told them."

"It sounded like you claimed to have attended some French school."

"Yes, I have to agree. That was what I attempted. So, if you heard it, why did you ask what I said?"

"Any number of reasons, one of which is that I know you attended school in Gloucestershire."

"True, but it doesn't have the same cachet as a school in France, does it? Oh, if you don't remember I went to school in Cheltenham, at a fashionable Ladies' College. Where I learnt what's what and acquired a lot of exceedingly practical knowledge. Our reading, writing, arithmetic was positively mediocre, but we got pretty slick at the three-card trick and we played a pretty hand of poker."

"Your own composition?"

"I wish. She was our poet laureate. There are other verses, but I fear they get a bit too risqué for repetition while sober."

"You are correct, the sisters would not have been impressed. Where did you get the name of your French school?"

"Beauxbatons? I invented it, right off the top of my head. Very clever, don't you think." She smiled and raised an eyebrow, daring me to call her a liar.

"Very clever," I agreed, refusing to recognize I knew Beauxbatons. "What curriculum did you cover at your invented school?"

"Oh, I imagine our classes were very like yours at Hogwarts."

Feigning ignorance was becoming difficult. "Why do you say I attended a place called..."

"Hogwarts? Because you did," she shrugged. "I've no idea who told who, or when, but everyone in the neighborhood knows the mysterious Malfoys send their children to a school called Hogwarts. But since the name is seldom voiced by the Malfoys we respect that and don't mention it to you."

"And what have you heard of this Hogwarts?"

"Still in denial? Very little. I don't think I've found anything written about it, and for the last year I've looked. But there are any number of odd rumors and wild stories. A girl doesn't know what to believe. Although I suspect the Frenchman can be trusted."

"What Frenchman?"

"Oh, someone I met at a party a year ago. I think it was his first experience with gin and tonics and he was somewhat the worse for the experience. He had a stick much like yours. I told him I was your friend – he had heard of you – and attended Hogwarts. He spent the remainder of the evening arguing that Beauxbatons was better than Hogwarts."

"And you believe the ravings of a drunken Frenchman?"

"Not all of them. But some things made sense. And despite whatever you tried to do with my memory that was not a misshapen dwarf I saw at your home years ago, the creature was not human. And the portraits in your family gallery do move. And–"

Our food arrived and June fell silent. The squib left our meals, asked if there was anything else we needed, and departed.

I knew I had to say something. "Let us imagine that once, so long ago that no one can remember, there were some people who were simply better than other people at doing things – making jewelry, or pots, or wheels, or predicting if it would rain or not. Can you imagine such a thing?"

She nodded yes.

"Perhaps they selfishly wished to keep their secrets to themselves, or perhaps they were afraid they might be enslaved, or killed because they were different. So those with special abilities kept to themselves. And perhaps because the skills were somehow genetic, or perhaps through the exchange of knowledge, they became even better at the things they did. Perhaps it could be called magic. Perhaps they were able to tap into some natural force they themselves did not understand. It made them important for society. People came to them to purchase goods. They served as advisors to kings and generals. And then the 19th century happened. And people could communicate across oceans by wireless, fly the channel, light houses with electricity, and machines could produce more goods than the world had ever seen."

"From what I've heard you can do far more than science has ever duplicated. I told you, I saw that non-human servant and pictures moving. The Frenchman told me other things... Why haven't you helped Hugh and Frederick?"

"I can't."

"You can't, or you won't?"

"I can't. We can't all do the same things. Some of us know nothing of healing. I know a little. There were more wizards in the medical corps than carrying guns. It is possible that Hugh and Frederick wouldn't even be alive without some wizard helping them. There are limits to what we can do, miracles are beyond us."

I fell silent, angry with June for bringing back memories. There was a strained period at the table before June finally spoke. "I... I'm sorry. I thought... I hoped..."

I remained silent.

"What's wrong? I apologized. There's something... What's the matter?"

"Imagine," I spoke slowly, "that I did have some limited ability to help the wounded. What if a man in my platoon was badly wounded in the arm, and I helped speed the recovery? Instead of weeks in the hospital or possible discharge from the army for his injury he was able to remain with our unit at the front. And, imagine, that less than two weeks later I'm talking with him when a shell explodes – perhaps German, or perhaps an errant shell from our own side – and shrapnel tears through his skull, killing him... Did I kill him by trying to help? Was his death my fault?"

She put her small, warm hand down on mine. I saw tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry... I didn't..."

"There is only one who is said to have made the lame to walk, the blind to see, and the deaf to hear. And he wasn't one of ours. Look at what was done to him and you'll understand our reason for silence."

We ate without conversation for several minutes. Finally June spoke, "I think you would like to change the topic of conversation."

"You are correct."

"Can we return to the topic of what wine goes with rat?"

"While we're eating?"

"You indicated you wanted to change the subject. It seems like everyone I've met who served in the trenches has a story of eating rats. It sounds like you subsisted on nothing but vermin while you were at the front... Oh, but we must go back to the wine. You had, by some means, taken possession of a large quantity of wine that you intended for your platoon. That conversation ended before you told me how you managed to move a large quantity of wine to the front. I suggested you either bribed the soldiers guarding the road or used your memory spell on–"

"You said hypnosis."

"That was before. Now I know you can cast spells."

"It is a memory charm. A charm, not a spell."

"They're different?"

"There are types. And you need to be aware of that," I wanted very much to return to a lighter tone of conversation, "The Andrews twins will be spreading gossip on my lunch with a very pretty French witch and you will make Beauxbatons look bad if you use the word spell in an inappropriate manner."

"Could you repeat that?"

"Which? The witch? It is not meant as an insult, within–"

"The very pretty part. I'd like to hear you say that again."

"You are even prettier than you are vain. And you are very vain indeed."

"Thank you. Now, you needed to slip a lorry full of wine past sentries... Could you turn it invisible?"

"No, there are... Never mind. No invisibility. I–"

"Do you have a charm to turn someone into a toad?"

"I don't. Some can. But that's not a charm, that's transfiguration."

"This whole thing seems needlessly complex."

"And if you don't stop interrupting me it may take years for me to finish the story!"

She cocked her head to one side in coquettish fashion and looked into my eyes, "Would that be so bad?" She was teasing me. Like me she must have wanted to leave the depressing conversation behind and return to a lighter banter.

It still wasn't easy, but I laughed, and reminded her that our families would never approve. "I don't like altering memories. It can cause problems. Some sentries and guards saw a truck full of wine as important for the boys in the trenches. A small bribe here and there I was willing to pay. I think I had to use the memory charm three times before the wine reached the front."

"And now for the rats. The army didn't feed you?"

"They fed us very well, on paper. But paper doesn't do your stomach much good. In theory we were regularly rotated back for hot meals. That often became impractical. And the conditions such as weather or shelling, which could make it impossible for us to go back, also made it impossible to deliver food. Or sometimes lorries were requisitioned for ferrying supplies to a battle, or bringing the wounded back. And sometimes, even if adequate supplies were shipped to the front, conditions in the trenches – or even the storage conditions before food reached the front could make it inedible. The potted or tinned meat might have spoiled, or the salt pork been gnawed by vermin. So, under those conditions, rats – which were abundant – were our alternative protein. I suppose we could have drawn straws and chosen a private to devour, but the army frowned on cannibalizing our own."

"How, uh, did they taste?" June asked. "The rats, I mean."

"Well, if you're hungry enough they are better than the finest steak. We were also fortunate to have an excellent cook in the platoon. Rat and potato stew was tasty, but his rat kabobs were what brought him the real applause. We cleaned our sector out of rats, which also reduced the threat of typhus, and I needed to lure them–"

"Did you play music, like the pied piper story? They say music hath charms over animals."

"This lure was a potion, not a charm. Brought in some fine, fat rats... We tried not to think about what they had been eating to attain such a size. And a good bottle of red went very well with them."

As we left The Wand Club June took my arm, "Would you like to try your memory charm again? There are things I might want to forget."

"I'm not certain, but I must have done it so badly years ago that my attempt has created interference with any later attempt to alter your memory. There are wizards who are much better at memory charms than I, but my fear is an attempt might harm your memory in a permanent way, and change who you are. You are annoying as hell on occasion, but I am rather fond of you, and I don't want to see you harmed."

"Thanks, Tibsy... Can this be our little secret? I won't tell anyone what I know about you, and you won't tell anyone that I know it?"

"I think that would qualify as an elephant-sized secret."

"Large elephant, or a small one?"

"Umm, a medium sized elephant. But considering that wizards and witches are brought up to keep our secrets I can manage if you can – I've heard women are completely unable to keep–"

"We can keep them if we need to."

"I'll see. I might actually enjoy being open with you."

"If you need to talk, I'll be there for you."

Despite the fact I've always thought of her as my little sister I felt a strong desire to kiss her. I successfully fought it. "We need to get back to the Yard and see if Rowe has had time to find anything."

* * *

 **Notes**

I am unaware of large scale corruption in the War Pensions Agency, but drew inspiration from the Harding Administration (likely the most corrupt administration in US history, although there are several – usually Republican – in serious competition for the title (Corrupt administration does not mean the President himself was corrupt. Grant was honest, but had an unfortunate habit of appointing crooks who swindled him as well as the US.). Harding appointed Charles R. Forbes as head of the Veterans Bureau (precursor to the Veterans Administration). Forbes is estimated to have stolen more than two hundred millions dollars (in the days when a million dollars was a lot of money) before fleeing to Europe in 1923. Brought to trial in 1925 he was fined ten thousand dollars and spent two years in Federal prison... Thank Republican appointed judges. Heck, I'd be willing to spend two years in Federal Prison for two hundred million even in today's dollars.

And the song about school in Cheltenham is anachronistic. But it is worth finding Tsai Chin singing it on YouTube. It is a fun song. And the later verses are not that risque, but do mention a novel not written until 1928. I've not found the official lyrics, this is the best of a couple attempts I found at transcribing the words:  
 _I went to school in Cheltenham_ _At a fashionable Ladies' College_ _Where I learnt what's what_ _And acquired a lot_ _Of exceedingly practical knowledge_ _Our reading, writing, arithmetic_ _Was positively mediocre_ _But we got pretty slick_ _At the three-card trick_ _And we played a pretty hand of poker_ _We were rather weak at the Latin and Greek_ _But we worked with considerable fervor_ _And we had to cram_ _For an English exam_ _On Lady Chatterley's Lover._ _I loved my school in Cheltenham_ _With the chestnut trees so shady._ _And I now embrace_ _All the charm and grace_ _Of a typical English lady._ _I shared a room in Cheltenham_ _With a daughter of the landed gentry_ _Whose most refined_ _Little one-track mind_ _Was completely elementary_ _Our marks in French and algebra_ _Were a series of disasters_ _But at forging cheques_ _Or at S-E-X_ _We were absolute past masters_ _In the upper sixth form we were studying form_ _And we put on the money with the porter_ _And at night our Head_ _Used to tuck us in bed_ _With an out-sized whiskey and water_ _Let's give three cheers for Cheltenham_ _Where the chestnut trees are shady_ _When I learnt of vice_ _And all things nice_ _Like a typical English lady._


	5. When Will That Be?

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

 **When will that be? Say the bells of Stepney.**

Chief Inspector Rowe was in a fine humor when we were escorted into his office. "There appears to have been a serious falling out among thieves," he told us cheerfully. "Their stories of this morning started to fall apart almost immediately, with Smythe claiming Ramsey had come to his office, and Ramsey denying it. Then each seemed to suspect the other was attempting to sell him out to the police and they became very cooperative. It was curious... At the time Smythe insists Ramsey came to his office, Ramsey insists he was dealing with a stubborn young woman who fits the description of Miss March here. Curious, what?"

"Curious indeed," June agreed. "I rather wonder how many women in London might be said to match my description?"

"I suspect, and hope, you are unique," I assured her.

She looked at Rowe, "Do you think Tibsy just paid me a compliment, or an insult?"

"If he's not an ass it was a compliment."

"You didn't answer my question."

"In their rush to confession was anything said about the deaths of Smollet and his gang?" I asked.

"No," the Chief Inspector admitted. "While they admitted to the theft of narcotics – each naming the other as having the principal blame in the scheme, and using Smollet for distribution – they insisted they had nothing to do with the deaths. When questioned separately about Smollet they each claimed he owed them approximately fifty-thousand pounds. They each claimed it should have been more, and insisted Smollet appeared to be stalling the payment and telling them that competition had driven down the price he was able to obtain."

"They might have been angry at being cheated," I mused, "but if they had hopes of receiving fifty thousand it means they would have little motive to kill him."

"True," Rowe agreed. "It would appear competition for the sale of narcotics might be the best angle to use in approaching the murders – at least for one wanting to prove Wright innocent. I am not saying I believe Wright innocent, but I'll have Detective Thrush and a pot of tea brought in and he and I can discuss following the trail of the morphine."

"Now then," Rowe said twenty minutes later, settling back in his chair with his cup of tea. He looked at Thrush, "It appears that Mister Malfoy and Miss March have done the government a good turn in finding corruption at the Pensions Agency. That's why they are being allowed in sit in while you and I discuss further details of the case. The prisoners indicate Oswalt Smollet and his gang served as distributors of the narcotics. While we are not ruling Wright as a possible murderer we can investigate the trafficking in drugs more carefully. Since you will be investigating the trail of the morphine your work might overlap with that of Malfoy here. I trust you don't object to my asking him to sit in with us."

Thrush looked over, at June, and gave his dazzling smile, "Not a bit," he assured his superior.

"Now then, Wright doesn't have the best of memories, but based on the firmest dates he could recall he delivered the drugs to hotels where the bright young things were holding parties. That–"

"Excuse me," I asked, "bright young things?"

"Tibsy doesn't get into the city often enough, and apparently fails to read the newspapers," June sighed. "May I answer?"

"Certainly," Thrush agreed, far too quickly. He was clearly trying to flatter June.

"As the war ended some of the daughters of the moneyed class began holding little parties and get togethers at hotels. These grew into treasure hunts, with the young ladies traipsing about London to gather items and earn prizes. The newspapers took notice and wrote them up in the columns. Boyfriends and brothers began to join and the parties became larger, and that made them all the more newsworthy."

"Drunken, out-of-control parties," Rowe snorted. Alcohol, drugs, American negro musicians... Swimming pool parties! Girls in bathing suits parading around in front of negro jazz musicians!

"Not everyone is drunk or uses drugs," June told him. "I've attended a couple... Robin? Did you said your sister runs with a fast crowd, is she part of the set."

He glumly nodded his head yes.

"With the number of young men killed or wounded in the war there is often a shortage of men at the parties," June informed the Chief Inspector. "I already know some of the girls around the edges. Were I to show up with two men I feel certain the three of us would be welcome for a treasure hunt or any other amusement."

"Could prove useful," the old detective grunted. "Now, a couple items I wish to mention in passing. We real detectives aren't quite as useless as we are shown in fiction."

"The Strand Magazine?" I asked.

"You read that and not the newspapers?"

"No, I'm unfamiliar with it. But a young woman of my acquaintance lives on it."

"I read the newspapers too!" protested June.

Rowe gave her a look of reproach. "Please don't think we sit around, wringing our hands and waiting for gentlemen detectives to–"

"It would seem you read the Strand also," June pointed out.

"I, 'em, ah..." he harumphed. "Guilty. Just to see the public image of the police, of course. Now then, Wright claims to have taken the car from Smollet's home. This seems probable. Had a mechanic look it over, cause of the little smash-up appears to have been someone tampering with the brakes and he wouldn't have been–"

"Doesn't that prove he's innocent?" I demanded.

"No. But it would have been an item I looked at more closely if I had been allowed to pursue the case – and will look into if the case is re-opened. And the mechanic can't say with absolute certainty that the failure of the brakes was deliberate."

"Taking it from the perspective that Wright is innocent, someone tampering with the brakes would suggest that the killer wanted him to have an accident so that the murders and narcotics would be found. It would look like someone might want to frame... But the murderer would need to have known that Wright was scheduled to make a delivery. Which would mean the murderer knew Smollet and the other victims rather well – he would probably not have discussed his plan with competition," I offered.

"Or perhaps," June theorized, "the murderer didn't know a delivery would be made. It wasn't done specifically to frame Wright, but to insure that the police became aware of the murders whenever someone attempted to move the car. Why draw attention to the crime?"

Detective Thrush attempted an answer to June's question, "A contracted killer might want whoever had hired him to know that the murders had been successfully carried out. It might have been more convenient for the police to find the heads and the newspapers publicize the deaths than for the man who ordered the killing to receive five neatly wrapped parcels by post, each one holding a severed head."

"Why cut off the heads at all?" demanded Rowe. "If you wish to prove you've killed a man, just leave the body in an alleyway, it will be discovered soon enough."

I asked, "Have the bodies been located?"

"No, just the heads. There must have been a lot of blood. We've checked Smollet's home and discovered nothing. Since the killings two bodies have been pulled from the Thames, but both had their heads firmly attached. If you'll remember, three of the cuts were relatively 'clean', which might indicated they had been drugged prior to the killings. Of course without the contents of the stomach to examine that remains simply an hypothesis. If true it would suggest the murderer was well known to the gang if he could give them drugged food or drink. And then you have the heads we believe belong to Smollet and Samuel Gilbert, so dreadfully butchered that identification remains somewhat uncertain."

June voiced her theory, "Perhaps they hadn't partaken of the drugged food, or perhaps the killer had an especial hatred of the two."

Rowe looked at Thrush, "You didn't give her photos of the heads in the dossier, did you?"

"You asked me to give them–"

"And I didn't faint or become hysterical. Young women no longer swoon and faint when you say 'boo'. And can we discuss the money? Ramsey and Smythe claim they were owed fifty-thousand pounds, and felt they had been cheated and should have been owed more. Fifty-thousand would be a good motivation for murder. Has the money been found?"

"Excellent focus on the pertinent facts," Rowe complimented. "No, it has not been located. We've found no bank account. The gang preferred to work with cash. And Smollet was slow in sharing profits with his own gang. Before being told to close the investigation I discovered two of the members, Sutton and Ahrens, were in arrears on their flats. Both of them swore they were owed wages at their place of employment. So, if Smollet was both skimming money from what he owed his suppliers, and short-changing his own men the actual amount may have been well in excess of fifty-thousand."

I asked, "Any idea if Smollet was in debt to anyone? No, that doesn't work. The person to whom he owed the debt might have been angry enough to kill Smollet for being slow in repayment, but would not have had a motive to kill the rest of the gang."

"Exactly," Rowe agreed. "A pretty kettle of fish indeed. Should you discover the bodies or money you will most certainly determine the motives and murderer. Determining who competed with Smollet and company in selling narcotics to the bright young things may be useful, but you can't be certain of that." The old detective sighed, "In my younger days I'd have quite resented not being allowed to pursue this case. It presents a large number of interesting angles. And I would have envied the opportunity you have to look for an answer. Now that I'm older and wiser I don't care if I can work the case or not. I hope, in a couple days, to be able to officially re-open the murder portion of the investigation. If the three of you somehow manage to solve this you will have my gratitude."

As we left the Yard June told Detective Thrush and me that we would be going to the March home to discuss our plan.

"I think you read too many detective stories," I grumbled.

"You can't read too many detective stories," she chirped. "I'm certain they will be of help."

Thrush, ever the suck up, seconded her choice of literature, "Whether it will help in this case or not, they are ripping good adventures and worth reading."

"Please, call me June."

He looked like he would die of happiness.

Happily George Marsh had decided to remain in the city until his daughter was returned to the chaste battlements of the ancestral manor. She gave the pater a kiss on the cheek. "Tibsy and I had an adventure this morning. He was right in suggesting the drugs had been stolen. Detective Thrush is working on the crime from another angle and will help us prove Wright is innocent."

"That's not exactly–" he attempted to protest, but June waved him off and told the two us to wait in the parlor while she ran to find telephone numbers.

Thrush quickly took a spot on the settee, obviously hoping June would sit beside him. Remembering my pledge to her father I took the spot beside him, leaving a chair for June.

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable in the chair?" he suggested.

"No, this is quite nice."

June hurried in and plopped down in the chair. "I've no idea if anything might be happening tonight. I'll call Cynthia in a tick, but first... Robin, we can't exactly hide the fact you're a detective. Mimsy may have mentioned you to ever so many people. Not that we should sound a trumpet about the fact, it is simply that it may already be known. So, when we get to... to... whatever entertainment is happening I can't be too near you, since I'll be helping Tibsy with his morphine addiction."

"Excuse me?" I demanded.

"It is so sad," she told Thrush. "Developed it while he was in the hospital after being wounded. We shan't talk of where he was wounded. Where he was struck on his body that is, that isn't polite. I can mention the battle. He was... Tibsy?"

"Yes?"

"Would you rather have suffered your injury on the field of battle or in an accident when something blew up? You can have your choice of when... Oh! A mule carrying ammunition to the front! A bullet hit a crate the mule was carrying and you were wounded in the explosion. Yes, that will do nicely. And while in hospital recovering you became addicted to the pain medication. When access was restricted you purchased what you needed from a man named Smollet, but he was killed earlier this week. It was perfectly dreadful and in all the papers. And now you are need of a new source. I shall be very discrete when I ask if anyone knows anyone who can help you with your problem."

June telephoned a couple friends and discovered there was a large treasure hunt scheduled for the next evening. In addition Cynthia invited her to a small get together at the Forty-three that evening.

"Not a good place to go," Thrush said nervously.

"Why not?" June demanded.

"Because Kate Meyrick keeps her clubs selling liquor after hours, and it would look very bad for a police detective to be taken in a raid."

"You could explain you're on assignment, in disguise or something."

"I can't imagine Chief Inspector Rowe would approve."

"Well, if you feel it's best," I consoled him, "you should let June and I go without you."

"But you must go, Robin. Meeting some people tonight will make you more acceptable tomorrow. We can leave at midnight.

And so the three of us found our way to Soho, a short walk from the March home in Mayfair. "Do you know where Mimsy is now?" June asked the detective.

"No. I mean, she's in the city somewhere."

"Perhaps she'll be here tonight. Wouldn't that be fun?"

We arrived at the Forty-three, found a table and June ordered a glass of wine, Thrush a pint of strong bitter, and I a Sazerac.

"Oh, I see some friends," June told us while we waited for our orders. "I need to get details on tomorrow." Our orders arrived and she left to join the other young women.

Thrush took a deep drink and sighed with contentment; I waited for him to say something idiotic. I had resolved if I heard another person tell me of the hardships endured by those having to drink Lloyd George's beer on the home front I would punch him in the nose. The detective made no such comparison between the suffering in the trenches and at home. I realized that he might have been on the Western Front himself, or Gallipoli, or some other hell hole. "Where were you during the war?"

He pointed at his lapel, "Wore a 'King and Country' badge... Felt like a shirker... Three friends didn't come home."

"Would you being on the front kept them alive?"

"No... No, I suspect not. But it never felt right with me here and so many of you over there."

"I don't think anyone would begrudge you staying home... Envy definitely. Everyone in the platoon would have traded places with you in a heartbeat if it had been possible. White feathers?"

He rolled his eyes in mock horror. "Please tell me June wasn't one of them. The idiots! Why didn't they stop the nonsense when the draft came in?"

"Ah, you said the key word. Idiots. Some of my lads came home on leave – and were given the feathers."

"I believe you. Did you hear of George Samson?"

"The name is slightly familiar."

"Given a VC for gallantry. On his way to a public ceremony in his honor, dressed in civilian garb, and handed a white feather."

I chatted with Thrush while June talked with friends. I might have felt like the pair of us were being stood up, but June wanted to make certain we were welcome at a party the next evening and I assumed she was getting our ducks in order. So I chatted with Thrush. In different circumstances I might have liked the chap. His good looks were not his fault, even if his choice of hair pomade was unfortunate. He might have been forgiven that if it weren't for his interest in June. Since his assignment was to work on where the narcotics had gone, while mine was to prove Mucky innocent we would move in different directions at the party tomorrow evening. "Chief Inspector Rowe said he went to the residences of a pair of the victims in addition to Smollet?"

"Yes."

"So, there were a couple he did not visit. I'm not certain if I saw where he had gone in the dossier you prepared."

"It was there. He also mentioned it this afternoon, Sutton and Ahrens in addition to investigating Smollet's home. Why?"

"It may not have seemed important at first, but I'm wondering if there might be some clue at the residences of the other two."

"I don't think," he started to warn me, then stopped and pursed his lips. "That should be left for the police. You have no authority, but if the landlords are willing to speak with you there is nothing illegal in your asking them. The addresses were in the file I gave you."

"I remember that, I just didn't remember which had already been searched. So I plan to see if there is anything of note where Greene and Gilbert lived."

"Be sure to mention to the Chief Inspector if you find anything of value. I think he really would like to get back into the murder investigation."

"You can be certain of that I'll mention anything of value."

Laughter from the group around June caught our attention and we saw her gesturing in our direction as the young women around her stared at us.

"Tell me," I asked Thrush, "do you get out much to the country?"

"No. Why?"

"Was wondering if you'd ever been down by the river and seen an angler out in the water. You ask him if the fish are biting and he holds up an especially nice trout as a boast of how he is doing?"

"Perhaps not a trout, but I know the experience. Why?"

"Oh, I'm looking at the young women with whom June is talking , and I see the looks they give us. And I was wondering, in a mindless sort of way, which of us was the prize trout."

He stared across the room to where June sat, "I wouldn't mind being her prize fish."

"Poor fish would be more like it."

"She is a beautiful young woman."

"She's trouble."

"So... You are not in pursuit of her yourself? I rather figured you had a head start, but if you're scratching yourself from the race it rather helps my chances for a win."

I didn't have an answer for that. June was very clearly too good for Thrush, but the little idiot might be charmed by his good looks and fall in love with him anyway. I had a sudden irrational hatred for the man, wondering if he might be the man June had mentioned to her friend Cynthia and if she was only pretending to have met him recently. I tried to sound casual, "June is a friend of your sister. When did you meet?"

"I can't be certain. Miriam would have friends at the house. I visited her at school a few times. It is certainly possible, perhaps even likely, we were introduced at some point, but if so I have to admit I don't recall. I certainly shall never forget when the two of you walked into my office."

His story mollified me slightly. June had come to London on a whim, and had volunteered to help me free Mucky. She had no interest in Thrush other than the help he might provide to us in proving my boy safe. Or at least she had felt no interest when we arrived. I knew the potions shop in Diagon carried a full line of love philters. Did they sell anti-love philters? It would be for June's own good. Then conscience stabbed me in the back and I knew it would be wrong. Why is it that your conscience will never encourage you to go ahead with what you really want to do? It is always there like a nagging parent telling you not to do something.

June returned with two friends, who drew up chairs on either side of the detective and tried to monopolize his time even as he tried to monopolize June's attention. The presence of the two made it impossible to discuss whether her conversation might have yielded any information of value.

As the witching hour approached Thrush excused himself with the need to work the next day.

"I should leave too," June told her friends and stood.

And I had no intention of remaining at the club by myself... Or rather with the two unfamiliar women. Once out of the club Thrush offered June his arm, "Why don't I escort you home? If Mister Malfoy's house is in Belgrave he needs to head south."

June smiled, too brightly, "Thank you, Robin."

"I can go with the two of you," I offered.

"No need," Thrush assured me. "Don't want to add to the distance, if you chose to hike. Or you can hail a cab. But a short walk to the March home sounds like the perfect end to the day."

Did June hear me grinding my teeth? She patted my arm, "Don't worry, Tibsy. I'll be safe. I'll be with a police officer."

She would be with a police officer, who was also the man in London most dangerous for her – in my opinion.

* * *

 **Notes:**

Suck up, meaning to flatter, is attested as a verb as far back as 1860. I'm uncertain if it would have been used as a noun in 1922.

The Defence of the Realm Act, enacted a few days after the start of the war in 1914 was supposed to improve morale on the home front (and failed miserably) by allowing the government to restrict, ban, or declare illegal anything it deemed detrimental to the war effort. This included dangerous activities like flying kites or buying binoculars. Advocating for workers rights sent a number of men to prison. Newspapers were censored as well as letters between home and the front. Britain didn't have the Prohibition laws so loved by American gangsters (who could charge inflated prices for cheap hootch) But DORA set strict time limits for the sale of alcoholic beverages (some of the hours on restriction remained in place until 1988). In addition to drastically limiting hours when pubs could sell alcohol, what they offered had reduced content. The watery brew, dubbed Lloyd George's beer for the Prime Minister, wasn't liked. (Look for an early recording of Lloyd George's Beer, a song from 1917 on YouTube.)

We shall win the war, we shall win the war,  
As I said before, we shall win the war.  
The Kaiser's in a dreadful fury,  
Now he knows we're making it at every brewery.  
Have you read of it, seen what's said of it,  
In the Mirror and the Mail.  
It's a substitute, and a pubstitute,  
And it's known as Government Ale (or otherwise).  
Lloyd George's Beer, Lloyd George's Beer.  
At the brewery, there's nothing doing,  
All the water works are brewing,  
Lloyd George's Beer, it isn't dear.  
Oh they say it's a terrible war, oh law,  
And there never was a war like this before,  
But the worst thing that ever happened in this war  
Is Lloyd George's Beer.

DORA, as a wartime measure, may have lapsed after the war but some of its restrictions, especially on alcohol, remained in place and further cemented into law with the Emergency Powers Act of 1920. (Fortunately, Lloyd George's beer was assigned to an unlamented watery grave.) There was some easing of hours when alcohol could be served in licensed establishments in 1921, but restrictions remained. Kate Meyrick was perhaps the best known among the many who flouted the law by staying open late in licensed clubs or unlicensed establishments She had trouble with the law since at least 1919 when they closed her club Dalton's. When forced to close the licensed club she would reopen it under different names, and so it was often called 43, for the address which didn't change – 43 Gerrard Street, Soho. Like the American police under Prohibition some London police made a few extra quid turning a blind eye to late hours or warning the proprietor of an expected raid. A short paper on London nightclubs by Kerrie Holloway can be found on the web. The paper does a wonderful job of explaining some of the economic changes hurting the gentry class and how the move to club life, instead of the earlier tradition of entertaining in the homes, reflects the changing economy and laws on taxation.

The army was strictly volunteer at the start of the war. In August 1914 Admiral Charles Fitzgerald founded the Order of the White Feather to publicly shame/humiliate men who didn't volunteer for service. The women who joined handed white feathers (signs of cowardice) to men they deemed should be in the army. Women who joined were enthusiastic, but not the brightest gas jets on the home front. Some seemed to feel that any male between fifteen and a hundred and five not confined to a wheel chair was fit to serve (and some didn't limit themselves that much). There are a number of stories of deaths to men medically excused from the draft being shamed into volunteering for service and being killed. (Desperate times, even if you were ruled unfit for drafting you could volunteer – and they were happy to ship you out... Often a one-way trip.) The government began issuing "King and Country" badges to individuals needed at home... Not that it always stopped zealots from handing them white feathers. The Silver War Badge was given to vets discharged because of wounds or illness. They still received white feathers. Introduction of the draft should have killed the movement, but zealots are seldom dissuaded by use of reason, or maybe the order was simply full of women who enjoyed publicly humiliating men (even when they themselves came to be regarded as public nuisances and laughing-stocks). Wikipedia provides a good introduction.


	6. I Do Not Know

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

 **I do not know, Says the great bell of Bow.**

Nigel's hand on my shoulder awakened me. I glanced at the clock. "I told you to–"

"A Miss March is downstairs," he informed me, the tone of his voice clearly indicating he did not approve. I sometimes found Nige's Victorian morality amusing, but not at the moment.

"Bloody hell! Why?"

"Asking her that question did not seem in the realm of my responsibilities."

"Go downstairs and... Ask if she needs breakfast. Tell the house elf... No, just... Keep her from seeing the house elf."

"Very good, Sir. But your bath and clothes?"

"I can draw my own bath. Just try and keep her out of trouble."

At an hour at which I would have expected to find myself in bed, had I needed to look for myself (I usually know where I am), I found myself bathed, shaven, and sitting at the breakfast table.

June sipped tea as I spread marmalade on a slice of toast, "Honestly," she complained, "it's almost as if you don't want me as your partner on the case. You called me your Watson."

"I was being ironic. And you know it."

"I still say Holmes would have done a better job of informing Watson. I had to learn your plans from Robin last night when he walked me home! He asked if I would lunch with him. And when I answered I was helping you he tried to dissuade me from going to where two of the victims lived."

"I don't recall asking you to accompany me today. And while I've not read all the Holmes stories, I seem to recall Watson bitterly complaining that Holmes did a very poor job of keeping him informed."

"Perhaps. But as you said, you weren't serious in making the comparison."

"And I'm not sure where I'm going, or how suitable the locations are for well-brought up young woman to visit."

"So, you're saying I should call up Robin and accept his offer for lunch?"

I chewed a bite of toast to give me time to think before answering. I've never chewed a piece of toast so long in my entire life. "I suppose a second set of eyes might help, if it appears there is any evidence of value."

"That's the spirit, Tibsy. And if we find something I can meet your 'chemist' friend who worked on the morphine sample?"

"That wasn't a chemist, it–"

"It was one of your magic chaps. Like at your club the other day. Was he there?"

"He is a she, and she was not there."

"Does she read tea leaves or the lines on my palm?"

"No she doesn't, and would find you insulting and rude if you asked her to do so. Which is why I won't be taking you with me, if I find anything."

"If _we_ find anything. What are _we_ looking for?"

"I have no idea, but I'm hoping I'll recognize it if I see it."

"It would be so much easier for me if you give me an idea how your fortune teller works–"

"Seer. She's a seer. You give her an object and she has a vision of where it has been or who has seen it. If we had clothing the victim was wearing when he was killed – and the sample hadn't been handled by too many people since then – she could see the face of the killer and see the location."

"But without the bodies we don't have the clothing."

"The relatively clean cuts suggested that three of the victims might have been drunk or drugged. That suggests they were at a location with someone they knew and trusted. Perhaps they'd been there before."

"Good thinking. I think. I'm really not sure how your seer does her work, but that sounds like a plan. Is there anything else you want to tell me about proper etiquette when you introduce me?"

"I'm not going to introduce you."

"Why not? I... Oh, if she's a good seer she will probably know who I am, correct?"

"What you are is impossible," I muttered. "Let's get going. Oh, let me find a stout bag or two to carry any evidence we find. And you will not meet the seer." Even as I assured her I would not take her to meet the seer I had my own premonition that she would. Since I had low marks in fortune telling at Hogwarts I counted on the premonition being wrong.

Greene's brother had come round and cleaned out everything from the flat where the victim lived. There was little the landlord could tell us. Thomas Greene had kept odd hours and had a bit of a temper, but he had always paid promptly until a month before when he claimed his wages hadn't been paid. Because he had been faithful in past payments the landlord had not pressed for payment (or so he claimed).

Gilbert had stayed at a cheap rooming house, and might have paid ahead, the landlady said nothing of his being in arrears when we spoke with her. She struck me as the kind of person who might have searched the room for valuables on hearing of her tenant's death, but she claimed the room was untouched. If no relative appeared she wasn't sure what her responsibility was (and would probably not ask of the police what she should do). But she claimed she would probably put things in a trunk for temporary storage. However, since we claimed to be working in conjunction with the police, and since I slipped her a couple pounds, she allowed us into the room and watched us with suspicion as I looked through a chest and June into a wardrobe.

"I'm seeing nothing of interest," she warned me.

"Nor am I," I replied. In a moment of inspiration, or desperation, I laid on the floor and peered under the bed. "Hello... A muddy pair of shoes."

"Are they an interesting pair of muddy shoes?"

"They might be. I'm not sure if any place in London is poorly paved enough to produce this mire."

"Oh, more promising than anything else we've seen."

"Can you find a crop or something I can use to bring them out? I'd rather not touch them."

"That filthy?"

"I don't want to contaminate them before the examination."

"Hate to point out the obvious, but he was not a man to require a ridging crop."

"I suppose silver fire tongs or a silver poker would be too much to ask."

"While you're making the request, ask Father Christmas to bring me a new diamond tiara, the old one has rather gone out of fashion. Use your lucky stick."

"My 'lucky stick' was not intended to–"

"Then pick them up by hand. You haven't a lot of choices available to you."

"Fine," I grumbled and took out my wand.

"I'll get the bag," June offered.

"What are you doing?" demanded the landlady.

"The police laboratory can see if there is anything unusual about the mud. Certain soils are only found in certain parts of the city. Particles of different material might give the police clues about his movements."

I dropped one shoe into the bag that June held open, and lifted the other. It was an insult to my wand to use it in such a fashion, but neither June nor the landlady would have realized that.

"So... You're taking this to the police for inspection?"

"You certainly don't think Mister Malfoy or I want them for ourselves, do you?"

"We will share our information with Chief Inspector Rowe," I assured the woman. "Other business interrupted his investigation. If we discover nothing of value he hopes to continue his search for the murderer."

Mentioning the police seemed to make her more nervous rather than calming any question she had about our taking the shoes, and she hurried us from the home.

"Well, let's find out what your seer can make of the shoes," June said when we were in the car.

"I will find out. You can't see her."

"Why not?"

"Because..."

"Because I'll discover you're a wizard? I already know that, remember."

"The entrance to Diagon is–"

"Diagon?"

"It was a little wizarding village near London, as the metropolitan area grew the village was swallowed up – completely surrounded."

"I've never heard of it."

"Naturally."

"Where is it? It must belong to some neighborhood."

"It doesn't belong to any neighborhood, it exists by itself."

"Don't be silly, if the city has engulfed it, it must be a part of something."

"No it doesn't."

"Yes it does."

I probably simply wanted to prove to her she was wrong as we entered The Leaky Cauldron.

"This is Diagon?" she whispered.

"No, the usual entrance is simply through the Cauldron," I assured her. I smiled at the look of wonder on her face as the wall moved, allowing our entry. She just stood there unable to believe what she had seen.

"You'll catch flies that way," I warned.

"What?"

"Your mouth is hanging open."

"That's... That's..."

"And will you admit it belongs with no neighborhood in the city?"

"I will admit no such thing. It has to be part of something, I've simply no idea what."

"Try not to look so out of place," I warned with a whisper as we walked toward Constance Cunningham's business.

"But the people, and the shops. And– There! Right across the street! What is that?"

"It is impolite to stare. That is a banker."

"A banker?"

"And a goblin. I suspect he sees himself as banker first and goblin second. But that's a guess. I've only talked with goblins in connection with banking. Ah, and here we are. Let's see if the seer is in."

We climbed the flight of stairs. The sign on the door read. 'Yes, I am. Do remember to turn the sign.' The back of the sign read, 'The seer is currently occupied, ask again later.'

I opened the door for June. Constance Cunningham stared at June. "Ah, the young woman with whom you have been spending so much time. And despite her claim of attending Beauxbatons she is a muggle, from a family of moderate wealth who live near you."

As June stared in amazement I asked, "All observation?"

"Indeed."

"The fact she claimed to attend Beauxbatons?"

"The movements of a Malfoy are always of interest to the gossips. You lunched with a pretty woman at the Wand Club, who claimed to have attended Beauxbatons. The perfume of this young woman–"

"June. Her name is June March."

"Thank you. Her perfume is the aroma you had on you the other evening. I don't think you deserted this woman to lunch with a French witch. But this woman is not French, her clothes are English. They are not of the highest fashion and slightly behind the current style. What one would expect of a young woman from the country. And how would you know such a woman? The simplest explanation is that she is a close neighbor to your country home. A squib from a good family would have been recognized by someone at the Wand Club, so she is a muggle. Her knowledge of Beauxbatons is, obviously unusual. You like her so much you told her? That seems very unlike a Malfoy."

"I told her nothing! She's insufferably curious and has been putting little scraps of information together... And there was some damn French wizard."

The seer looked at June. "You must like him a great deal to have done so much work."

June blushed. "I... The Malfoys... We..." she stammered. "No one from Britain attends Beauxbatons?"

"There are some Irish and English families who send children there."

"So the Scots prefer their native land? I suspected as much," June smiled.

"You are a muggle. And Mister Malfoy obviously likes you a great deal to reveal so many secrets to you. So very uncharacteristic of a Malfoy."

"I haven't revealed a thing to her!" I protested. "She's the most curious creature alive, and insufferable in demanding her own way!"

"Since neither of you appear to have any interest in telling me the truth I will assume this visit is also connected with your quest to prove the man who served under you innocent. Something larger than what you brought on your previous visit, based on the size of the bag you carry."

"A pair of shoes from one of the victims," I explained.

"Since the bodies have not been found they would not have been worn at the time of the murder."

"How do you–"

"I read the newspapers and I use my mind. If the police had resolved the matter Mister Malfoy would hardly be here seeking information, unless of course he is showing you off to the residents of Diagon."

"I am doing no such thing," I insisted, perhaps too loudly. "The bodies have not been discovered, but we have hopes he might have visited the place where he was killed before his death. We're frightfully short of anything that looks solid and have nothing to lose by grasping at straws at this point."

"Nothing to lose other than payment to me."

"If you discover anything of importance it will be worth vastly more than your fee, so I'm certainly willing to take the chance."

"Very well," she said and held out her hand for the bag. She placed it on the floor beside her and gestured for June and me to sit. She opened the bag, looked inside, placed a silver tray on the table, and took a pair of silver tongs from the shelf behind her to remove one shoe and set it on the table. She selected a large iron ring and placed it around the shoe, then selected a crystal dome which fit into the ring. "Have you informed the young woman of what to expect and the limitations of my visions?" she asked as she continued her preparations.

"I told you, she knows nothing."

"And yet, here she sits beside you in my consulting room."

"Tibsy didn't even tell me you were a woman until today, and then only after I kept referring to you as a man."

"Witches are just as capable of magic as wizards."

"I don't doubt you for a minute."

"Now then, my visions go back in time – and only back. I can not move forward to look at something again after I've moved past it. And I can use an article only once. Since shoes are customarily warn it pairs I should be able to repeat the vision with the second shoe."

I came prepared with a notebook this time, and took it out along with my pen.

"Now then..." She frowned, then gave me a look of disgust. "What did you use to put the shoe into the bag?"

"My wand."

"Your wand! How could you be so–"

"You didn't tell me how to collect a sample."

"Anyone with a brain should realize the interference that–"

"Pardon me," June interrupted. "Is it utterly ruined for your work?"

"Yes. The wand's contact with the shoe has ruined it for examination."

"What about the mud?" June asked. "The mud looked, to me, like something he would have gotten on his feet outside of London."

"And left it on his shoes?"

"He didn't have a man, and based on his room was not the most fastidious of individuals."

"I can but try. Fortunately you have the second shoe. The charm I applied to this shoe has quite spoilt the mud for examination."

"And the other?" June asked nervously.

Mrs. Cunningham sighed, "I'll do my best. If the wand touched the inside of the shoe and not the mud on the bottom there is some hope. However, it means I will not be able to see any movements prior to the mud fouling the shoe. Let me refocus my study." She repeated her preparations and gestured to began scrolling backward through time to find a clear image. "Somewhat better. Under a bed, where I assume the shoes were discovered." She continued scrolling, "Ah coming back to his room in a car. Three other men with him in the car."

I had brought the photos from the folder Thrush had prepared. "May I put these on the table?"

"Yes." She looked them over. "These four, here is the man wearing the shoes. The others were with him." She returned to gazing into the crystal surface. "If you're curious, I don't have a precise sense of time, but the drive seems to have taken some time. They are heading north."

"Pardon," I asked, "I've a bit confused with the reverse part of your visions. The north?"

"They were returning, headed south, but played backward it appears they were driving north in reverse gear. The location where the mud soiled the shoes is north." She returned to the crystal. "Ah, here he is getting into the car. Seems to be a small farmyard. Another man seeing them off..." She glanced over at the photos. "Him."

She described the farmyard in great detail at my request as I took copious notes. I gained a clear sense of the layout of the various outbuildings and was encouraged to think I could identify the farm, if necessary, by an unusual weather-vane on an outbuilding, the color of paint on a second, and mismatched shutters on the farmhouse. "Landmarks? Any other buildings visible in the distance?"

"Let me change my field of focus... There is really nothing distinctive that... A small village, barely visible in the distance. It is... It is almost directly east, the village, that is, is east. I see more of an oak forest in between than fields... Some fields. Parish church is only thing I can see well enough to describe at all."

She provided all the details she could, but the village sounded difficult to pinpoint and I was not sure of the value of the location in any case. I had hoped for more, but the vision ended abruptly, at the point where the mud had soiled the shoes.

"And that ends what I can tell you."

Looking over my notes I decided, "I hope it may prove of value."

"The men you are seeking information about were at the farm," Mrs. Cunningham said in summation. "You might be able to locate the farm, but it would not be easy."

"And there is no certainty it would help," I conceded. "Miss March and I have another avenue to pursue, perhaps that will reveal the killer or killers."

"Perhaps. Is there anything else I can do for you, or should I answer her questions."

"Her questions?"

"Of course, on meeting a professional seer she has a number of questions. She has a false question with which she hopes to trick me." She turned to June, "Correct?"

"How did you..."

"Because everyone does."

"I told her not to say anything rude."

"For a man who claims to have told her nothing you appear to have told her a great deal."

"Good manner are always appropriate."

"They are indeed. Now, Miss March, have you a legitimate question, or do you find the visit to Diagon sufficiently overwhelming that you will simply try to remember all you can before Mister Malfoy applies a memory charm to you?"

"There are muggles who know of Diagon," I reminded her.

"Yes, but in the main they are married to a wizard or witch, or have a child with the gift... Are you planning to marry her?"

"I was simply pointing out the fact that memory charms aren't used on everyone." Hopefully there would be no reason to mention the failed memory charm of my youth.

June laid her hand on my arm, "I completely trust Tiberius to do whatever he feels is best."

The seer gave us a look which suggested she didn't believe either of us, but she accepted her fee, wished me luck in finding the killer, and asked us to turn the sign back around on leaving.

As we reached the street June suddenly had a question, "She said the rumor was I was a French witch. Will she reveal I am a fraud?"

"Can't tell," I shrugged. "Her stock in trade is the sale of information. There is no profit in simply telling all she knows."

"But if one of those twins who met me the other day wanted to know more about me? She would tell her?"

"She sells information. Why would Callista and Calliope be interested?"

"They seemed frightfully curious about me the other day, which I assume was only because one or both was interested in you. Which of them has the interest in you – or do you have an interest in one of them?"

"If you don't share your affairs of the heart with me I see no reason to share mine with you."

"Ah, so I'm right. You are interested in one of them."

"I said no such thing! I said I preferred discretion in regard to romantic entanglements, whether any exist or not. Although, there is currently a rumor in the wizarding community that I am keeping company with a lovely French witch. We might give the gossips more to whisper about if we are seen walking arm in arm." I offered her my arm. "Shall we keep the rumor alive?"

"It is all so different than France," she said as we strolled by a group looking in the window at a stationary shop. Once past them she whispered, "Is it in Paris? Should I have said Paris?"

"As I told Missus Cunningham, I am giving you no information about the wizarding community."

"And as she pointed out you are doing a very poor job of withholding information. You should just surrender to the inevitable and be honest with me."

"The way you are honest with me?"

"Women are supposed to be mysterious. Men are supposed to be... What are men supposed to be, besides fatheads? You do that very well. Are wizards different from other men? Is there some sort of code for wizards that sets them apart from other men?"

"No. I think we are much like other men, other than the gift. And we are not fatheads."

We stopped at a tea shop for a cuppa before returned to Mayfair. I left her at her home, with a promise to return and pick her up before the gathering that evening.

Nigel had my clothes laid out and a very haughty attitude when I reached Malfoy house. His normal duties did not include keeping young ladies from hunting house elves and he wanted me to remember that fact. He was mollified somewhat when I donned the raiment he had selected for me without second-guessing his choice of ties.

Detective Thrush was already at the March home when I arrived. He looked even more handsome in evening clothes, but ruined the look (in my eyes) by the fresh application of pomade. He greeted me cheerfully and I scowled in return, then remembered his work and mine shared a common search for what really happened. "Sorry," I apologized. "Bit of a headache."

"You should go home and rest. I'll take good care of June."

"No, wouldn't think of it. Besides, your attention will be on the narcotics trade and mine will be on proving my lad innocent."

"Yes, but as the Chief Inspector pointed out, the competition for drug territory is the most likely cause for the murders, so I am more likely to have success. If you have a headache sleep is the best thing in the world for you."

Under no circumstances did I wish to leave June alone with the detective. I hope she remembered her plan of the night before to stay with me and find some other woman for him to partner with in the scavenger hunt.

We arrived at the hotel which would serve as starting point and whose ballroom would be used after the close of the scavenger hunt portion of the evening. Before entering June beckoned us to one side. "Robin, you're on duty?"

He nodded yes.

"Well, you probably aren't allowed to drink. And even if you were you wouldn't – so you could keep your wits about you. It is important that you appear slightly debauched. I mean, people may know you're a policeman, but they don't have to think you're on duty." She pulled a small flask from her clutch and unscrewed the top, then dribbled a little of the contents on the flask on his jacket.

Thrush's nose wrinkled in disgust. "Cheap gin?"

"More of a moderately priced gin. Tibsy? Your turn."

She gave me a sprinkling of gin as well. Since her chemise didn't offer enough material for external application June took a sip and swished it around in her mouth before swallowing. "Now, gentlemen, if you will each give me an arm I shall probably be the only girl to arrive with two men – and should that not be true I will certainly arrive with the two most handsome men. Robin, I shall probably be forced to surrender you to some poor girl who has arrived alone. Is there any sort you like? Tall? Short? Blonde? Auburn? Brunette? Is there a type which appeals to you?"

"Well, in a perfect world I'd like a young woman of your age, your height, your hair color, with eyes identical to your own."

"And a dress like the one I'm wearing?"

"Indeed."

She turned to me, "I hope you are taking notes. Doesn't he pay the sweetest compliments?"

I growled in disgust.

She looked back at Robin, "And don't be too jealous when I send you off and stay with Tibsy. Remember, I have to help him with the addiction he developed while in hospital."

"Can the two of us slip away sometime in the wee hours to discuss anything we've discovered?"

"I would look terrible fickle if I gave Tibsy the slip to disappear into the cloakroom with you. Perhaps the three of us can have a tête-à-tête, if you can ditch your partner. Or if you prefer her company we can compare notes tomorrow."

"I can't imagine meeting anyone tonight whose company I would prefer to yours – even if we must bring along your chaperone."

As June had predicted her arrival with two men caused no small stir among a gaggle of young women talking with one another. She knew two or three of them... I wasn't certain but thought one of them had been at the Forty-three the night before. In any event they swooped toward us en masse.

"June, darling!"

"Wonderful to see you!"

"We start in seven minutes."

"The judges will give out the list."

"Where have you been keeping yourself?"

"There are usually two on a team."

"Please don't be selfish. You must surrender one of them."

June laughed and clapped for a moment of quiet. "Some of you know Miriam Thrush, correct?" Several nodded in agreement. "I would like to introduce her brother, Robin Thrush. This," she pointed at me, "is my neighbor in the country, Tiberius Malfoy."

"Men are in short supply!"

"You must give up one or the other."

"Which to choose?" June mused. She suddenly grabbed the front of Robin's jacket and pulled him to her lips. I was livid as I heard her whisper something to him. The kiss did not last long and she turned to me and grabbed my jacket front, "Kiss me like you mean it," she whispered as our lips met.

I was angry with her for kissing the detective, but realized it must be part of an act so that she could 'keep' me and turn Thrush over. Her lips, with the slightest hint of gin, were wonderful. _"Will look better if I hold her,"_ I thought and put my arms around her in a protective embrace. I have no idea how long the kiss lasted. The only thing on my mind was the feel of June's lips press against my own.

It was she who broke the kiss. "I think I'll stay with Tibsy this evening." She gave Robin a peck on the cheek. "Next time I'll keep you."

I should have been angry at her words, but I was still in a daze

"Robin, do you wish to choose one of these fair maidens, to serve as her knight errant for the evening? It might be dangerous if you let me choose for you. I might pick the most unattractive so she won't usurp my place in your heart."

The detective looked at the group. "There is not an unattractive young woman among them, but you need not fear any of them taking your place."

June giggled, "Isn't he gallant? Perhaps I've chosen wrong. His boast does require testing... Phyllis?"

A tall, striking redhead answered, "Yes?"

"Would you be a dear and test Robin's loyalty? I'd be ever so grateful."

Phyllis looked thoughtful, "Well, as a favor to a friend."

"I'll do it!" another young woman offered.

"No, let me!"

June turned to the detective, "You won't be offish, will you, if I loan you out? You will be your usual charming self?"

He looked at Phyllis, "I would never be offish to a lovely woman."

"She's not just pretty, she is intelligent also," June warned. She turned to the redhead, "This is only a loan. Unless, of course, you discover his loyalty is not as deep as he claims."

"Am I allowed to keep him, should I find him fickle?"

"Would you want him, under the circumstances?"

"Perhaps. I'd certainly be less willing to put him in pawn."

"I've put him in pawn? What did I receive for him?"

"Umm... Twenty points from my total tonight."

"I'll give thirty," another woman called.

"No," June told her, "I've placed him in Phyllis's care, and she estimates his value at twenty points. I suspect she undervalues him, but I accept the twenty. You're all my witnesses."

While I had no idea about how many points Thrush might be worth, and suspected he was over-valued, I simply found myself standing to one side during the conversation. The idiot grin on my face owed more to the memory of June's kiss than the conversation.

Pages listing the various items to be sought, along with their point values, were handed out to the teams. Some immediately ran for the underground.

"Can you bring multiples of the same item?" I whispered, noting a common item.

"No, only one..." She uttered a most unladylike oath. "Someone bribed the judges."

"What makes you say that?"

"Look at this item – forty points for a barrister's wig, but one hundred and seventy points if it is sitting atop a barrister. Several of the girls have fathers, or brothers, or cousins who are called to the bar. And I bet they're all sitting somewhere waiting to be collected for the hunt.

"A hundred and fifty for a life preserver from a Royal Navy vessel."

"I don't imagine a sailor would let even a pretty girl on board to steal one," she protested.

"But you are working with a wizard. Let's head for the docks."

On the ride we looked over the list for other items. I couldn't believe. "Thirty points for a copy of the Daily Express from Wednesday last? That's more points than you'll receive for Thrush."

"Do you have a copy of the Daily Express from last week?"

"No, I suspect they've all be tossed into rubbish bins."

"Exactly. That's why it's worth points. Today's paper is worth nothing.

Another team, two women, stood at the dock offering to bribe a sailor on duty for a life preserver. While he obviously enjoyed the interruption in his otherwise boring duty I suspected they would not succeed. June and I would have better luck. We remained back in the shadows. "Do you see one?"

She pointed, "There. But how are you going to get it."

"A summoning spell. And you will then pretend I apply a memory charm and you forget what you saw."

"I suppose... Or you could kiss me and I would forget what I witnessed because I swooned."

Her teasing left my feelings confused. It was becoming more and more difficult to keep the sisterly image of her firmly in mind after the kiss earlier in the evening, and her suggestion that the kiss be repeated make it difficult to concentrate. Making certain we were unseen I pulled out my wand, "Accio!"

June's expression was very like the look on her face at the parting of the wall when we visited Diagon. "That was... That was..."

"This," I reminded her, "is one hundred fifty points. What's next?"

All teams had to return by midnight. A team with a thousand points in total would be declared the winner and receive a prize. If more than one team reached the thousand points the first back to the hotel won.

"Can you make things?" June asked as we left the Savoy theater. A program for the evening performance brought a mere ten points.

"I can turn some things into other things, but don't know how to produce anything on the list."

"Oh... Someday you must tell me what you can and cannot do."

"I could turn items brought by other teams into tea cups, but someone might suspect magic."

"And we all know magic doesn't exist. It would also be cheating."

"And asking me to use magic to make items for us would not have been?"

"I..." She made an odd gesture with her left hand.

"What was that?"

"I made a hypnotic gesture. You will forget I made the suggestion."

I grinned, "What suggestion?"

"That would really be a most useful thing."

"It is a most useful thing. A pity I seem to have foozled my ability to do it with you."

"You would change my memory, if you could?"

"Perhaps... There are a few things you should not know. Nothing about magic."

"Aren't there any normal people who–"

"Muggles."

"Muggles?"

"We feel we're normal. Non-magic users are muggles."

"And my question, aren't there muggles who know about wizards and magic?"

"Well... Yes. As I reminded the Seer there are muggles we trust."

"You have a choice then. You must either trust me or watch me very carefully. Which will it be?"

"A difficult choice... Am I allowed both?"

"A wonderful idea," she agreed and took my arm.

We arrived at the hotel with what we had found at a quarter until midnight and joined the line of other teams, four barristers in wigs, and a pantomime horse, to have our score tallied. A witness told the judges that Phyllis had pledged twenty of her points to us, but the judge pointed out that Phyllis and Robin Thrush had not checked in yet, and if they came in after midnight there would be no points to give us. Not that it mattered. Even allowing for the additional twenty our final tally would be eight-hundred sixty. A very respectable total, in my mind, but when the team in front of us had been awarded nine-hundred ten I had realized we were out of consideration.

Phyllis and Thrush must have arrived just under the gun. Not that I witnessed the arrival. June and I were in mid-foxtrot when a tap on my shoulder and request, "May I cut in," alerted me to their return.

"Ask Phyllis to dance," June suggested as I reluctantly surrendered my partner.

There appeared to be other options available to me, but I danced with the redhead. She might have been even more proficient dancer than June, but I did not enjoy myself as much. Still, she related the story of her evening's search with Thrush in an entertaining manner.

The detective might have been heading back to Phyllis when he appeared to be waylaid by a mob of unaccompanied young women. One or two had given me lean and hungry looks earlier on my way to the redhead, but I was not cursed with the striking profile and dimpled chin of the handsome detective and had made it across the ball room floor unscathed. June beckoned me to join her, and I wished Phyllis luck in freeing Thrush from his captors.

"Robin saw a person with gang connections in the lobby," June informed me as the band began new number.

"How? They must have just gotten here."

"He's a detective, and a good one. He's seen the pictures the police keep on file. He can't be certain if he is selling narcotics, but there are people at the party who probably use them. But it not someone in the Sabini gang, the man Robin saw is associated with the Elephant and Castle group with which Smollet had connections."

"And what did Thrush propose to do?"

"Well, since he may be known as a policeman there is little he can do. But if I–"

"It's too dangerous."

"Would you allow me to finish my sentence."

"I would prefer not to. I feel confident it will be something dangerous, and you will be eager to do it. I would hate very much to see you damaged. We're dealing with someone who cuts off heads."

"And there is little chance of that happening. I told you, I have a cover story already. I shall be very discrete, slipping up to him quietly and mentioning your problem. If he's cautious he won't do anything tonight, but will set up some meeting tomorrow or the next day."

"Which is when you will be hurt."

"Your concern is touching, but remember I'm trying to help you."

I tried to raise an objection but she left me for the lobby. I followed. We found a spot with a good view and did our reconnaissance. Or rather June did her reconnaissance. She had the description of a Richard Archer from Thrush and I did not. But I took a certain smug pride in finding him with less description.

"There?" I whispered and nodded in the direction of the man I suspected. He looked out of place in the posh lobby. His clothes were flashy, but not in the best of style or taste. "In the chair by that pillar?"

She stared. "I believe so. Wait here."

"Are you certain you don't want me to–"

"Wait here," she repeated.

In my head I knew June was right. If he thought she was a plant from the police he would not start trouble, simply deny he had any idea what she was talking about. If he thought she was interested in the purchase of morphine he would not drive off a potential customer. And if the detective was wrong and this was simply a Scot with no sense of fashion on holiday in the City he would have no idea what she was hinting at. As I repeated the list of reasons that June was safe for the fourth time in my mind she returned.

"And?"

"And I will be meeting with him in a tea shop tomorrow. He is being cautious."

"Can I come with you?"

"No, next time."

At three I returned June to her home. Which is to say Thrush and I returned June to her home. I don't believe I've met a more annoying creature. He planned to be in a location where he could observe the tea shop tomorrow afternoon. I planned to be with him.

Nige awakened me before nine. Before I could curse him for being a fool he fired a salvo across the bow. "That woman is downstairs again."

"June?"

"I believe that is what you called her. She is very insistent you go down immediately."

I tied the belt of my dressing gown as I went down the stairs. I tried, and failed, to read her expression, but could tell something was wrong. "What happened?"

"Richard Archer, the man I talked with last night..."

"Yes?"

"His head was found this morning."

"Head? As in..."

"Robin called. He thought we might want to go to the scene."

* * *

 **Notes**

Some muggles know of Diagon in canon. A nervous and out-of-place Mr. and Mrs. Granger are shown there in an early novel. How they got there, or discovered their daughter had the gift, or how Hermione came to be admitted to Hogwarts was not explained.

The original germ of a story centered very much with the bright young things. There would have been a number of jazz age parties in the story. As it evolved, however, they became less important to the story line. Perhaps I could have written them out completely, but after the research I had done I thought they deserved a token appearance at least.

The bright young things do seem to have originated with scavenger hunts among the jaded daughters of the upper middle class. Then boyfriends joined them and the parties expanded in a number of ways the general public found decadent and degenerate - but the public loved reading about them. (And the gossip columns of the paper gleefully reported the parties to give the reading public vicarious titillation.) The scavenger hunts expanded to other bored debutantes beyond Britain. The opening scene of the brilliant 1936 My Man Godfrey is a New York scavenger hunt. Points which are offered for bringing in a 'forgotten man' brought the Bullock sisters to the dump in search of a vagrant – a down on his luck William Powell. William Powell in the 1936 film. Who cares that David Niven starred in utterly forgettable 1957 remake?

London boasts the oldest underground railway in the world, and oldest electric underground railway. But I suspect that in 1922 there was no automated voice reminding you to "Mind the gap."


	7. A Chopper to Chop Off Your Head

J K Rowling created Harry Potter, who has not appeared in any story I've written. And I lay no claim to owning World War I or the historical setting. My stories: Hogwarts 1835, On Being Mrs Malfoy, and Hogwarts 1940 use a number of locations and the occasional younger version of canon characters. This story is set within the world Rowling created, but without any of her characters.

Glad I roughed this out entirely before starting to post. Writers love reviews. They provide encouragement. And a very large thanks to Alex-Papa Storytime-Markov, gerbilHunter, and Thomas Linquist for providing it for this story.

 **Here comes a candle to light you to bed, And here comes a chopper to chop off your head!**

Perhaps I was asleep in bed and this was a very bad dream. It couldn't be an attempt at humor. "Richard Archer is dead, his head cut off?"

"I just said that. Twice. Get dressed so we can see what is happening."

Still tired from lack of sleep I stumbled back upstairs.

"Nigel! Clothes!"

"What do you require, Sir? Morning attire?"

"I need clothes suitable for viewing a severed head."

"There is no need to be sarcastic," he sniffed.

"I'm not being sarcastic."

"What does one wear to view a severed head?"

"I am relieved to say I've not received an invitation before today. I... Do I have a uniform lying about?"

"The insignia have been removed."

"That's fine. It's seen blood before."

We had indulged a bit at the party, so my head was somewhat the worse for wear as I returned to June. I knew that caffeine would be a better restorative than hair of the dog which bit me, but was right in guessing she would not allow time for me to try the efficacy of either.

At the car she informed me, "I'll drive, I know where we're going."

"Why did you need me at all?"

"Would you prefer I simply take your car without asking?"

"No, I... Sorry. Headache. At some point I need coffee or tea."

"I could use some myself."

"And why did he call us? I appreciate the help we're receiving, but–"

"He didn't call us. He called me. Robin only saw him at a distance last– this morning. I spoke with him. So he asked me for identification purposes. Looking at a photograph is one thing. I... I'm not sure how I'll do with seeing the head of a person I spoke with just hours ago."

It was a moment to be encouraging, and I didn't miss it. "You'll do fine. You're strong. You're capable."

"And you're wonderful. Thanks."

The police didn't want to let us pass, until June mentioned the detective's name, and that he had called her for identification. Thrush hurried over. "Just got word. Police think they found where he was killed."

"It wasn't here?"

"No, just head left."

"So you have the body this time?"

"No, but since talking with June the police found a lot of blood. I'm heading over. Can June give a glance to the head here, in the location found, so it can be taken in for further examination?"

"Can we come with you to where he was killed?"

" _Think_ he was... A bit irregular, that. But can be done."

"Maybe they'll have a body when we get there."

"One hopes... Think I'll ride with you to give directions. I hope neither of you are familiar with that section of the city."

Thrush sat beside me and directed.

"What happened," June asked. "Or is that a silly question?"

"No," he assured her. "And we're not certain. Head was seen early this morning. Person who discovered it thought it belonged to a manikin. Police were called and one of the two who answered the call thought the head belonged to Archer. Chief Inspector Rowe knew I was working on the narcotics investigation and told me to come down – I called you."

"Any chance this is good for Wright?" I asked hopefully.

"Doesn't appear the same. This was done with a knife, very messy job, rather than an axe. May not be the same killer at all, may be a copycat. But I feel like Rowe is more and more certain your man may not be the killer. He feels confident he'll be allowed to reopen the investigation in a day or two. If you want to prove your lad innocent yourself you may need to work fast."

"I don't need to find a killer. I find the whole idea rather more excitement than I want. I simply want to make sure my lad doesn't swing for a crime he didn't commit."

"The only way to insure that would be to find the killer."

"You think so little of your Chief Inspector Rowe?"

"He's a fine man, and will do his best. But there are not a lot of clues to work with, and your Wright was still found at the wheel of a car with five heads in the boot. That will look damning to a jury."

Police again stopped us, but the presence of Thrush with us got us past them to examine what might have been the scene of the murder.

Chief Inspector Rowe himself stood near the coagulated pool of blood. Less than I expected, it was near a drain which had probably taken most of the gore.

"Found a body yet?" the detective asked.

"No," his superior told him. "Just the pool of blood."

"Has a sample been taken for typing?"

"Of course"

Thrush turned to June, "Early days of blood transfusions, a lot of people died. Some chap identified blood families. The transfusions that killed were from one blood group to another. Once they were sorted out it saved a lot of lives during the war."

"It can tell you if this was Archer's blood?"

"No, millions of people are in the same blood group. But we can tell if the blood was human or animal. And if it is in the same blood group this is likely the spot where he was killed."

"What brought you here?" I inquired of the Detective Chief Inspector.

"Are you asking about the vehicle I rode or why the police searched this location when the blood might have been discovered at any spot in London, if it was found at all?"

"I... Why here?"

"As I told you, we aren't as inefficient as we appear in popular fiction. When the head was tentatively identified as that of Archer I had men go through some of the darker areas in what is usually considered Elephant and Castle territory. It was a bit of a hunch, but I doubted he'd be fool enough to be wandering around in Sabini territory in the early morning hours, more likely to be waylaid in an area where he felt safe."

"Waylaid here by an enemy gang?"

"Likely. I suspect the killer hoped to mislead us about the location by leaving the head in another place and hoped we'd not find this. If so, blighter didn't give us enough credit. The whole damn thing doesn't make sense unless he hoped to hide the location. Why hide the location? Does he want us to think we have a madman who cuts his victims' head off? Do we have a madman? Is this a someone copying the earlier killer or," he held up a hand to keep me from interrupting, "is it the same person who killed the first five?"

"So, how do you plan to move forward?"

"Well, since we can be certain your man Wright didn't kill Archer I plan to bring in some of 'Darby' Sabini's men for questioning. Warfare between gangs is the best motivation we can find."

"And fifty thousand pounds."

"I'll guess the real figure is between sixty and seventy. Smollet cheated Ramsey and Smythe and was holding back money from his men. I would question Smollet's gang, but they're all dead. One of the 'Darby' Sabini's boys will know something. He'll make a slip during questioning and that will provide a lead.

June sighed, "I believe I hear you saying there are no clues in the case?"

"Hardly any. But I'm of the opinion this was not an act of passion. Someone put a lot of thought and planning into the killings or we would have more evidence and leads than we have now."

"Well, while you question suspects in the city Tibsy and I will take a drive north."

"Why," asked Thrush. "Is this connected with the case?"

I spoke up, uncertain what June might have said if left to her own devices, "We found that Smollet and his men had visited a place to the north. It may mean nothing, but with there being so little definite evidence it can't hurt for us to see if we can locate the farm."

" _If_ you can locate the farm? That sounds vague."

"Tibsy is too modest. Of course we shall."

"You will let the Yard know you find anything," Rowe told us. It wasn't a question, it was a statement of fact. "And tell Thrush exactly where you're heading."

Since we didn't know exactly where we were going, and Thrush was interested in exactly where June would be, it was difficult for us to get away. I suspect that even we had known exactly where we were going he would have preferred June staying near him in the City.

* * *

I aimed the Bentley in the direction of the Great North Road as June reviewed the little we knew. "It must be north of Buckden, because Constance saw that in her vision. It is south of Alconbury because she didn't see... The vision would have been ever so much more helpful if mileage markers had been included."

"You can write her a letter of complaint when we're finished."

"Probably not many miles north of Buckden we'll find a small road to the east among a thick copse of trees and a few miles in a village church with a slate roof and a blue bell tower."

I talked about the vineyard and winery in France, and my chances of inheriting same until we reached Buckden. After that our concentration was devoted to trying to find a small road leading east from the main road in a thickly forested spot. The English tongue requires greater precision. Neither June nor I had seen the vision, only heard the seer describe it. How many trees does it require for a patch of woods to the 'thickly' forested? June and I got into a rather nasty argument on the topic before, on our fourth venture down a side road–

"I think that's it!"

"What? Where?"

"Stop the car! There!"

Driving the narrow road had required my focus, but having stopped the car and she pointed to a village church in the distance. "By Jove, I think you're right."

"Jove? You're not pagan, are you?"

"Of course not. What a silly question, why did you even ask?"

"Well, you tried to keep being a wizard secret from me. I wonder what other dark secrets you might be hiding."

"The truth will out some day, I fear," I sighed. "I'm Methodist."

"Horrors!" she exclaimed, then laughed.

"Don't worry. I think we've all been proper Anglicans since some ancestor flirted with Catholicism in the reign of James the Second, and only because it was fashionable at the time. Loyal members of the Church of England ever since, although I wouldn't go so far as to imply all were devout members."

"I am much relieved. Back to the hunt. The farm was on this side of the village, and the village was visible. We need to start looking for something which matches the vision."

The single lane which had departed the North Road could only be called a road with some charity. The rutted drives and tracks leading off it to farmyards, often unseen from the road, were simply torture for the Bentley's suspension.

At our second attempt a farmer's wife, working in the yard, came over to ask about our surprise arrival. June described our desired destination. She is a wonder, June that is. We certainly didn't look like a couple wanting to buy a farm, or would have called on a farmer, but June invented a tale of explanation and spun it well.

The farm wife mentioned a much disliked neighbor, and gave directions – expressing a certainty that despite our expressed desire to visit said farm a couple such as June and I should shy clear of the spot.

We soon arrived at a place which fit the seer's vision. There was no one visible and something of an air of recent abandonment. And an air of something else.

I inhaled deeply. "This is the place."

"How do–"

"I smell death."

June sniffed, "Something a bit unpleasant, but... You're sure?"

I nodded. "I know it too well. Buried poorly, is my guess, or it would be stronger."

"What should we do?"

"What _I'm_ going to do is turn around and find a safe place to leave you. Then I'm coming back here to find something to–"

"Wrong answer. Let's find some bit of evidence we can take to the police and then leave together."

"Why did you ask my plans if you weren't going to listen to me?"

"I still believe you might have a good idea someday."

"The killer might be here."

"I don't see a vehicle."

"It could be in one of the out-buildings."

"Arguing only keeps us here longer. Let's see if this is indeed the place, find something to show Robin, and get out."

Has any man discovered the secret to winning an argument with a woman? I haven't.

I kept my right hand in my left sleeve as we stood beside the car. There were a hundred places a watcher might be hidden and I wanted quick access to my wand. June noticed my caution.

"You could just take it out and carry it."

"Tempting. Also the chance I'll want both hands free."

"And at the moment you have no hands free." She started walking toward one of the sheds.

"Stop," I ordered. "I'll lead. Get behind me." She seemed more willing to listen than usual, but it was understandable under the circumstances. There was no one visible and I took my right hand from my left sleeve and took several deep breaths, I pointed, "There."

June took hold of my arm as I reached out to open the shed door.

I offered, "Sure you don't want me to take you somewhere safer?"

"Sorry," she apologized and dropped my arm.

The old out-building was filled with all sort of rubbish, ancient sacks and crates, broken tools, and discarded harness. But a section of the dirt floor had been cleared and the soil disturbed. The smell of corpses was stronger here. I found a shovel among the clutter. "I'm going to verify it's human. Probably shallow, give me fifteen minutes."

"You... You won't bring a body back, will you?"

"No... Piece of clothing. A hand might be useful for fingerprints, but–"

"But I'll be ill if you keep talking like that."

"I said a hand would be useful. It will be enough to verify a body and get something to bring. Stay there out of the way."

The smell grew stronger, but it was a shallow burial. The body was fresh, possibly buried this morning. I guessed the smell came from others that were several days old and perhaps deeper in the same hole. I didn't plan to go deeper. I'd remove the bloody jacket on the headless body I found and June and I would leave as quickly as possible.

June must have chosen to leave even sooner. Perhaps she slipped out while I struggled to remove the jacket from the corpse. Her scream signaled the fact she was gone and I dropped everything and rushed out.

* * *

I know not whether it was my speed in running to her, or if June's own struggles had delayed her attacker, but she was alive. He stood behind June, his left arm had her left arm twisted up painfully behind her back. Her right arm was trapped beneath his right arm, which circled her body and held an axe, the wicked and very sharp looking blade pressed against her throat.

"Don't struggle so much," I warned June.

"He's threatening to–"

"To kill you. Yes. He plans on killing me too. But he doesn't dare this minute, so try not to have him kill you by accident."

"What you talking about?" the man with the axe demanded.

"Several things. The fact I might be armed means you need to keep her as a living shield. I can't shoot you while she's in front of you."

"Are you armed?" he demanded.

"June, did you see the man who has the axe at your throat."

"No. What does it–"

"Beneath a week of beard it's Oswalt Smollet."

"But he's–"

"No, not dead. Skilled at misdirection. Who would consider a murder victim as a possible suspect?"

"Are you armed?" Smollet shouted.

"In addition to that question you need to find out if anyone knows we're here," I pointed out. "It might also be valuable to know how we discovered the location. I mean, after all, even if we didn't tell anyone our destination before we left the means by which we located you could be used by another to follow us here."

"Damn you! Answer my–"

"I suggest we all calm down for a moment. You want to kill us. I realize that. But you need her as a living shield at the moment and you need some time to think of a good plan. Even if I'm not armed in the time it takes to kill her I can run and seize a shovel or something else to use as a weapon against you. I have killed men in the war, and am perfectly willing to do it again."

"Maybe we can make a deal of some kind?" suggested June, nervously.

"I doubt it," I warned her. "He's killed his friends, and we mean a great deal less to him. No, he–"

"Are you armed!" screamed Oswalt. "I'll kill her! I swear I'll kill her!"

"Of course that is your intent," I told him calmly. "Regardless of anything I say or do, you plan to kill her. Nothing I do will change that fact. You intend to kill me as well. But if you kill her now you've lost your human shield, if I am armed. And even if not, I pointed out it givse me time to find something to use against you. And killing her now won't provide the information you require about who else knows or might be able to locate your whereabouts. No, you need to calm down and make your own plans. How can you kill us both – but first you need to get the information from us. You can't torture her, because you haven't the time with me alive. Can you kill me, and then torture her into revealing the truth? You will need to figure out a way to manage our deaths. But, in the meantime, it won't hurt to clear up a few points for us, before you kill us, will it?"

"Why the bloody hell should I?"

"Because your plan is brilliant. No one will be looking for you. As soon as you eliminate us you're off with your... How much? The police are guessing between sixty and seventy thousand. I think a man as clever as you has more than seventy in this. Am I right?"

"Close to eighty," admitted Oswalt.

"I am impressed. How in the world did you find a man who looked enough like you to fool the police? It wasn't something you could advertise after all."

"He didn't look that much like me. It was really a bit of luck running into him. We got talking in the pub and the first idea came from him more than from me.

"So you did not initially plan to kill him?"

"Nah, We hatched the first plan. His idea to just to bury the bodies here." Smollet laughed, "Told me how neighbors never come 'round. I promised him half my loot – twenty thousand."

"But," objected June, "You had eighty-thousand!"

"The man didn't know..." I reminded her. "What was his name?"

"Harold. Don't tell no one more than you need to tell 'em. If'n he thought twenty was half, he'd take twenty."

"Exactly. So you had them all out here at some–"

"How'd you know that?"

"Ah, that is how we discovered your whereabouts. Gilbert left evidence of being here."

"Bastard," Smollet spat.

"So... While everyone was here, for whatever reason you told them, you realized that if the police thought you all dead they wouldn't be looking for you. But that took some preparation, you had to use Mucky to–"

"Mucky?"

"Sorry, Wright. In my platoon. Another of the lads called and asked me to look into it."

"Hell! Should have just left the heads until the stink alerted someone."

"There is no doubt he has the upper hand at the moment," I reminded June, then returned to murder plan, "But the lower teeth wouldn't work, so that was why Harold suffered so much damage. What about Gilbert?"

"Drunk. But look odd if only the one head damaged, right? And now I find out he gave you the location here!"

"The man is smart," I told June. "Give him credit."

"Tell me if you're armed!"

"Oh, I'm not. Or am I? Please forgive me if I feel no compulsion to tell you the truth of the matter. A shame that you'll kill June before I shoot you. Perhaps, if I can draw it fast enough, she can be saved."

"Damn you!"

"No plan is perfect, but yours is remarkably good."

"Tiberius," pleaded June, "fewer compliments, more planning how to get us out of here alive!"

"I'm doing my best. It would be easy enough for me to kill him, but so far every method I've thought of requires him to spend a bit of time killing you. If you don't mind I'd rather take my time and devise a plan which will keep you alive as well."

"I deeply appreciate your concern. Take all the necessary time."

"Do I have enough time? He knows this place far better than I. In an hour or so the sun goes down. He can drag you off in the dark. And after he murders you he'll hunt me in the dark."

"You could use the time to flee yourself."

"No, afraid I'm too fond of you. I'll certainly attempt to follow him and rescue you. If you could scream loudly in the darkness it will make following you much easier."

"I'll do my best."

"Not with your windpipe slit," warned Smollet.

I had a question, "Why kill Archer and cut off his head?"

"Isn't it obvious?" June asked.

"Whatta ya mean?" demanded Smollet.

June had begun to understand that delay might be in our favor. She addressed me, "Please tell me you understand why he decapitated the original victims."

"I... Ah, Harold's coconut might pass for Smollet if he banged it up a bit, but fingerprints would establish the victim's identity, even if it wouldn't reveal who the chap was, it would certainly betray who he wasn't."

"Good."

"But that doesn't explain Archer."

June explained to me, "He's not staying here. Some nosy neighbor might stop by and he can't pass. So clearly he's in London, growing a beard for a disguise. If he were staying here he wouldn't have seen Archer – or rather Archer wouldn't have seen him. Archer must have recognized Smollet, who doesn't want witnesses to the fact he's alive."

"Tried blackmailin' me, he did," confirmed Smollet.

"That doesn't explain cutting off the head. It wasn't to show Mucky was innocent."

"I'm not absolutely certain... Smollet likely hoped to hide the location of the killing, since the police would canvas the area and discover him. And it is ever so much easier to drop off a head at a distance and not lug the entire body. And that's why he brought the body out here for burial, he hoped the police wouldn't find where the murder was committed. He plans to wait until darkness tonight to slip back into London unobserved."

"Ah," I agreed, "but the Metropolitan Police did find the blood where the murder took place."

Smollet swore a blue streak. "Who knows that?" he demanded.

"Where the body was found? Oh, everyone. Why did you want to hide the location? I can't be certain," June told him, "but you will need to find a new... Oh, dear, is the money hidden where you're staying there?"

"Shut your mouth," he growled. "No, wait, I need to know how much you've twigged."

"She's a remarkable young woman," I assured him. "Lives on detective stories. I say, would you mind if I played with my lucky stick? I keep it up my sleeve and it calms me–"

"Shut up," Smollet ordered.

"Thank you," June told him. "Idiotic thing he picked up when he was ten years old. Carries it with him. A grown man." She looked to me and hissed, "Keep your hands free!" through gritted teeth. "Keep your hands free!"

"What's this stick?" he demanded.

I held up my left arm, "Keep it in a special pocket in the sleeve." I ran my arm down the sleeve to show there was no pistol hidden in it. "Sort of a good luck charm. I just sort of play with it, calms my nerves."

"Take it out," he ordered, "very slowly."

"No!" June called.

"Take it out!"

"Slowly," I kept my eyes on Smollet, and moved slowly as promised. With the experience of practice I found the end of my wand with my thumb and forefinger. I kept the left arm held up so that Smollet could see a simple stick emerge from my sleeve as I drew it out very slowly and carefully. "Foolish habit," I confessed. I pointed it at a fence post. "Used to imagine I could say a magic word and presto-chango it would be a frog."

Smollet actually chuckled as I casually pointed it in his direction. "You'd turn me into a frog?"

"If I could," I told him, _"Petrificus Totalus!"_

The result was mostly what I desired and slightly what I feared. Both Smollet and June froze in position. I'd have preferred to simply hit Smollet with the spell and June might have wriggled free. At least it gave me time.

The first order of business, of course, was to remove the axe from June's throat. Transfiguration was never my strongest subject at Hogwarts, but I had learned how to make tea cups and a tolerable chicken. I removed the startled bird from Smollet's grasp and returned it to its former identity. Hopefully June could be restored without freeing the killer, but they were so close that I couldn't be certain.

However, now that I had time I searched a shed or two and found a length of rope and loosely bound Smollet. His body was not in a position to allow a tight binding, but it would keep him from putting up an effective fight if I accidentally release them both. I looped a rope a couple times around his neck and held it tightly with my left hand as I tapped June with my wand and applied the counter charm.

Fortune favored us and June relaxed while Smollet remained rigid. It took a couple minutes to free her from his frozen grip.

"What happens now? Would he stay like that forever?"

"No. It wears off eventually. But I'll free him – we'll wrap the rope around him a little more first. Jerk him down, and tie him securely. Then I apply a memory charm. You defeated him – or at least that will be what he remembers. You twisted to one side, shoved the axe away, and with a blow from your mighty fist knocked him out. The next thing he will remember is waking up bound hand and foot."

"Wish you could use a memory charm on me," June shuddered. "I've never been so frightened in all my life! Your memory charm will work on him?"

"Of course. I was eleven or twelve when I foozled the charm on you. I'll have you know I'm considered extremely effective now."

"Could you hold me a moment before we tie him up? My knees are so weak I may faint."

We discussed plans while I held her in my arms. She vetoed putting him in the back of a car and taking him with us. I vetoed her suggestion of both of us driving over. While I felt absolutely certain he wouldn't be able to escape if left alone I wanted him watched. I told June to drive to the village, find a phone, call the police, and wait there to guide them out. She didn't want to leave me, for fear he might somehow escape and attack me. She finally listened to reason and agreed to my suggestion.

I released Smollet from the spell and jerked his feet out from under him. He fought like a tiger, knowing the fate which awaited him, but I had not intention of letting him escape and June stood to one side with an improvised club if I needed help.

After applying the memory charm I told June to leave and find a phone.

"I'm still trembling. Hold me another minute."

Helping her regain her nerve was very pleasant.

"This is nice, but I could use a higher dosage," she told me. "Since you can't use your memory charm on me, perhaps a kiss would help." I applied the requested therapy. "Much better," she smiled. "But I worry I might have a relapse tomorrow."

"You'll be fine. You had a fright, but your spirit will rise to the challenge. Tomorrow you'll be back to normal."

"But if I'm not? I suppose if you're not willing to help me with my nerves I could call Robin. He'd help."

"You'll be fine!"

"He will console me while you remain aloof."

"No. I won't hand you off to another physician. Having begun your treatment it is my responsibility to continue helping me until you make a complete recovery."

"Are you certain? It might take some time to fully regain my confidence."

"As long as you need me, I'll be here for you. Now go find a phone and call the Yard. The sooner we turn him over to the police the sooner we can begin treating your nerves."

"As long as I need you?"

"I don't mind. Now fetch the police." She was obviously just over-wrought at the moment, and would be fine on the morrow. A selfish thought flitted through my head, a desire that it actually take a bit of time before she regained her usual _joie de vivre_. Another thought flitted through, a vague wondering if June might telling me a fiction in order to achieve her own ends...

"Kiss me first," she ordered. "It will give me the strength to leave and call the police."

At the end of the kiss I retained a vague recollection that there had been a thought... perhaps two, in my mind mere moments earlier. But – if it were true – I found myself utterly unable to recall the notion. June's memory charm struck me as very powerful.

–The End–

* * *

 **Notes**

Karl Landsteiner identified the basic blood types in 1900. (He also worked on identification of the Rh factor, which was not understood until the mid 1930s.) The delay in receiving a Nobel prize for his work might reflect Austria being with the Central Powers in WW I. He moved to the Netherlands following the war, and eventually settled in the U.S. The move to the US was fortuitous. His conversion to Catholicism, in an effort to avoid anti-Antisemitism, would not have saved him when Hitler began rounding up Jews. **  
**

The speed limit of 20 mph on British roads was ignored by motorists in the 1920s. No driver's licenses were required. The 20 mph was repealed in 1930. The 30s was something of a wild west for the British motor system, with automobile associations defending the God-given right of motorists to run down anyone who dared try to cross a road, and the death toll was far higher than the modern toll despite the greater number of cars and higher speeds.

The Great North Road is ancient, but it didn't become the Old North Road until replaced by the New North Road. (And no one in 1918 said, "I'm so glad the first world war is over.")

After the beheading of King Charles I his sons, Charlie Jr. and little Jimmy, fled England. The influence of their French Catholic mother and time in the court of cousin Louie (Louis XIV) turned them from the Church of England. In the Restoration Charlie Jr took his place as Charles II and left his Catholicism in the closet. At the death of Charles his brother, little Jimmy, took the crown as James II. James dared to come out of the closet with his Catholic faith, and Parliament sacked him, offering the job to his daughter Mary and her husband William.

There was some use of fingerprints, usually informal, from the mid-19th century. In the 1890s it was recognized as superior to the clumsy Bertillion System of body measurements, and was used in prisons to identify those incarcerated. Shortly before the Great War the courts accepted fingerprints as evidence to consider in the trials of those accused of crimes. (Of course, without a body there is no way to make positive ID on a severed head in the days before DNA testing.)

Suggestions that women be allowed to serve on the Metropolitan Police during the War to End All Wars, because of the manpower shortage, were met with laughter. Nevertheless, the first women joined the force in 1919. They were severely restricted in what they allowed to do, and unable to join the police union until 1948.


End file.
